On an island I lay in a mystical bay,
In the dream that I dreamed I was dreaming.
The ghost of a scent — had it followed me there
From the place where I truly was resting?
It filled like an anthem the aisles of the air,
The presence of roses attesting.
Yet I thought in the dream that I dreamed I dreamed
That the place was all barren of roses —
That it only seemed; and the place, I deemed,
Was the Isle of Bewildered Noses.
Full many a seaman had testified
How all who sailed near were enchanted,
And landed to search (and in searching died)
For the roses the Sirens had planted.
For the Sirens were dead, and the billows boomed
In the stead of their singing forever;
But the roses bloomed on the graves of the doomed,
Though man had discovered them never.
I thought in my dream ‘twas an idle tale,
A delusion that mariners cherished —
That the fragrance loading the conscious gale
Was the ghost of a rose long perished.
I said, “I will fly from this island of woes.”
And acting on that decision,
By that odor of rose I was led by the nose,
For ‘twas truly, ah! truly, Elysian.
I ran, in my madness, to seek out the source
Of the redolent river — directed
By some supernatural, sinister force
To a forest, dark, haunted, infected.
And still as I threaded (‘twas all in the dream
That I dreamed I was dreaming) each turning
There were many a scream and a sudden gleam
Of eyes all uncannily burning!
The leaves were all wet with a horrible dew
That mirrored the red moon’s crescent,
And all shapes were fringed with a ghostly blue,
Dim, wavering, phosphorescent.
But the fragrance divine, coming strong and free,
Led me on, though my blood was clotting,
Till — ah, joy! — I could see, on the limbs of a tree,
Mine enemies hanging and rotting!
CAIN
Lord, shed thy light upon his desert path,
And gild his branded brow, that no man spill
His forfeit life to balk thy holy will
That spares him for the ripening of wrath.
Already, lo! the red sign is descried,
To trembling jurors visibly revealed:
The prison doors obediently yield,
The baffled hangman flings the cord aside.
Powell, the brother’s blood that marks your trail —
Hark, how it cries against you from the ground,
Like the far baying of the tireless hound.
Faith! to your ear it is no nightingale.
What signifies the date upon a stone?
To-morrow you shall die if not to-day.
What matter when the Avenger choose to slay
Or soon or late the Devil gets his own.
Thenceforth through all eternity you’ll hold
No one advantage of the later death.
Though you had granted Ralph another breath
Would he to-day less silent lie and cold?
Earth cares not, curst assassin, when you die;
You never will be readier than now.
Wear, in God’s name, that mark upon your brow,
And keep the life you purchased with a lie!
AN OBITUARIAN
Death-poet Pickering sat at his desk,
Wrapped in appropriate gloom;
His posture was pensive and picturesque,
Like a raven charming a tomb.
Enter a party a-drinking the cup
Of sorrow — and likewise of woe:
“Some harrowing poetry, Mister, whack up,
All wrote in the key of O.
“For the angels has called my old woman hence
From the strife (where she fit mighty free).
It’s a nickel a line? Cond — n the expense!
For wealth is now little to me.”
The Bard of Mortality looked him through
In the piercingest sort of a way:
“It is much to me though it’s little to you —
I’ve taken a wife to-day.”
So he twisted the tail of his mental cow
And made her give down her flow.
The grief of that bard was long-winded, somehow —
There was reams and reamses of woe.
The widower man which had buried his wife
Grew lily-like round each gill,
For she turned in her grave and came back to life —
Then he cruel ignored the bill!
Then Sorrow she opened her gates a-wide,
As likewise did also Woe,
And the death-poet’s song, as is heard inside,
Is sang in the key of O.
A COMMUTED SENTENCE
Boruck and Waterman upon their grills
In Hades lay, with many a sigh and groan,
Hotly disputing, for each swore his own
Were clearly keener than the other’s ills.
And, truly, each had much to boast of — bone
And sinew, muscle, tallow, nerve and skin,
Blood in the vein and marrow in the shin,
Teeth, eyes and other organs (for the soul
Has all of these and even a wagging chin)
Blazing and coruscating like a coal!
For Lower Sacramento, you remember,
Has trying weather, even in mid-December.
Now this occurred in the far future. All
Mankind had been a million ages dead,
And each to her reward above had sped,
Each to his punishment below, — I call
That quite a just arrangement. As I said,
Boruck and Waterman in warmest pain
Crackled and sizzed with all their might and main.
For, when on earth, they’d freed a scurvy host
Of crooks from the State prison, who again
Had robbed and ravaged the Pacific Coast
And (such the felon’s predatory nature)
Even got themselves into the Legislature.
So Waterman and Boruck lay and roared
In Hades. It is true all other males
Felt the like flames and uttered equal wails,
But did not suffer them; whereas they bored
Each one the other. But indeed my tale’s
Not getting on at all. They lay and browned
Till Boruck (who long since his teeth had ground
Away and spoke Gum Arabic and made
Stump speeches even in praying) looked around
And said to Bob’s incinerated shade:
“Your Excellency, this is mighty hard on
The inventors of the unpardonable pardon.”
The other soul — his right hand all aflame,
For ‘twas with that he’d chiefly sinned, although
His tongue, too, like a wick was working woe
To the reserve of tallow in his frame —
Said, with a sputtering, uncertain flow,
And with a gesture like a shaken torch:
“Yes, but I’m sure we’ll not much longer scorch.
Although this climate is not good for Hope,
Whose joyous wing ‘twould singe, I think the porch
Of Hell we’ll quit with a pacific slope.
Last century I signified repentance
And asked for commutation of our sentence.”
Even as he spoke, the form of Satan loomed
In sight, all crimson with reflections’s fire,
Like some tall tower or cathedral spire
Touched by the dawn while all the earth is gloomed
In mists and shadows of the n
ight time. “Sire,”
Said Waterman, his agitable wick
Still sputtering, “what calls you back so quick?
It scarcely was a century ago
You left us.” “I have come to bring,” said Nick,
”St. Peter’s answer (he is never slow
In correspondence) to your application
For pardon — pardon me! — for commutation.
“He says that he’s instructed to reply
(And he has so instructed me) that sin
Like yours — and this poor gentleman’s who’s in
For bad advice to you — comes rather high;
But since, apparently, you both begin
To feel some pious promptings to the right,
And fain would turn your faces to the light,
Eternity seems all too long a term.
So ‘tis commuted to one-half. I’m quite
Prepared, when that expires, to free the worm
And quench the fire.” And, civilly retreating,
He left them holding their protracted meeting.
A LIFTED FINGER
[The Chronicle did a great public service in whipping
—— and his fellow-rascals out of office. — M.H. de Young’s
Newspaper.]
What! you whip rascals? — you, whose gutter blood
Bears, in its dark, dishonorable flood,
Enough of prison-birds’ prolific germs
To serve a whole eternity of terms?
You, for whose back the rods and cudgels strove
Ere yet the ax had hewn them from the grove?
You, the De Young whose splendor bright and brave
Is phosphorescence from another’s grave —
Till now unknown, by any chance or luck,
Even to the hearts at which you, feebly struck?
You whip a rascal out of office? — you
Whose leadless weapon once ignobly blew
Its smoke in six directions to assert
Your lack of appetite for others’ dirt?
Practice makes perfect: when for fame you thirst,
Then whip a rascal. Whip a cripple first.
Or, if for action you’re less free than bold —
Your palms both brimming with dishonest gold —
Entrust the castigation that you’ve planned,
As once before, to woman’s idle hand.
So in your spirit shall two pleasures join
To slake the sacred thirst for blood and coin.
Blood? Souls have blood, even as the body hath,
And, spilled, ‘twill fertilize the field of wrath.
Lo! in a purple gorge of yonder hills,
Where o’er a grave a bird its day-song stills,
A woman’s blood, through roses ever red,
Mutely appeals for vengeance on your head.
Slandered to death to serve a sordid end,
She called you murderer and called me friend.
Now, mark you, libeler, this course if you
Dare to maintain, or rather to renew;
If one short year’s immunity has made
You blink again the perils of your trade —
The ghastly sequence of the maddened “knave,”
The hot encounter and the colder grave;
If the grim, dismal lesson you ignore
While yet the stains are fresh upon your floor,
And calmly march upon the fatal brink
With eyes averted to your trail of ink,
Counting unkind the services of those
Who pull, to hold you back, your stupid nose,
The day for you to die is not so far,
Or, at the least, to live the thing you are!
Pregnant with possibilities of crime,
And full of felons for all coming time,
Your blood’s too precious to be lightly spilt
In testimony to a venial guilt.
Live to get whelpage and preserve a name
No praise can sweeten and no lie unshame.
Live to fulfill the vision that I see
Down the dim vistas of the time to be:
A dream of clattering beaks and burning eyes
Of hungry ravens glooming all the skies;
A dream of gleaming teeth and foetid breath
Of jackals wrangling at the feast of death;
A dream of broken necks and swollen tongues —
The whole world’s gibbets loaded with De Youngs!
1881.
TWO STATESMEN
In that fair city by the inland sea,
Where Blaine unhived his Presidential bee,
Frank Pixley’s meeting with George Gorham sing,
Celestial muse, and what events did spring
From the encounter of those mighty sons
Of thunder, and of slaughter, and of guns.
Great Gorham first, his yearning tooth to sate
And give him stomach for the day’s debate,
Entering a restaurant, with eager mien,
Demands an ounce of bacon and a bean.
The trembling waiter, by the statesman’s eye
Smitten with terror, hastens to comply;
Nor chairs nor tables can his speed retard,
For famine’s fixed and horrible regard
He takes for menace. As he shaking flew,
Lo! the portentous Pixley heaved in view!
Before him yawned invisible the cell,
Unheard, behind, the warden’s footsteps fell.
Thrice in convention rising to his feet,
He thrice had been thrust back into his seat;
Thrice had protested, been reminded thrice
The nation had no need of his advice.
Balked of his will to set the people right,
His soul was gloomy though his hat was white,
So fierce his mien, with provident accord
The waiters swarmed him, thinking him a lord.
He spurned them, roaring grandly to their chief:
“Give me (Fred. Crocker pays) a leg of beef!”
His wandering eye’s deluminating flame
Fell upon Gorham and the crisis came!
For Pixley scowled and darkness filled the room
Till Gorham’s flashing orbs dispelled the gloom.
The patrons of the place, by fear dismayed,
Sprang to the street and left their scores unpaid.
So, when Jove thunders and his lightnings gleam
To sour the milk and curdle, too, the cream,
And storm-clouds gather on the shadowed hill,
The ass forsakes his hay, the pig his swill.
Hotly the heroes now engaged — their breath
Came short and hard, as in the throes of death.
They clenched their hands, their weapons brandished high,
Cut, stabbed, and hewed, nor uttered any cry,
But gnashed their teeth and struggled on! In brief,
One ate his bacon, t’other one his beef.
MATTER FOR GRATITUDE
[Especially should we be thankful for having escaped the ravages of the yellow scourge by which our neighbors have been so sorely afflicted. — Governor Stoneman’s Thanksgiving Proclamation.]
Be pleased, O Lord, to take a people’s thanks
That Thine avenging sword has spared our ranks —
That Thou hast parted from our lips the cup
And forced our neighbors’ lips to drink it up.
Father of Mercies, with a heart contrite
We thank Thee that Thou goest south to smite,
And sparest San Francisco’s loins, to crack
Thy lash on Hermosillo’s bleeding back —
That o’er our homes Thine awful angel spread
His wings in vain, and Guaymas weeps instead.
We praise Thee, God, that Yellow Fever here
His horrid banner has not dared to rear,
Consumption’s jurisdiction to contest
,
Her dagger deep in every second breast!
Catarrh and Asthma and Congestive Chill
Attest Thy bounty and perform Thy will.
These native messengers obey Thy call —
They summon singly, but they summon all.
Not, as in Mexico’s impested clime,
Can Yellow Jack commit recurring crime.
We thank Thee that Thou killest all the time.
Thy tender mercies, Father, never end:
Upon all heads Thy blessings still descend,
Though their forms vary. Here the sown seeds yield
Abundant grain that whitens all the field —
There the smit corn stands barren on the plain,
Thrift reaps the straw and Famine gleans in vain.
Here the fat priest to the contented king
Points out the contrast and the people sing —
There mothers eat their offspring. Well, at least
Thou hast provided offspring for the feast.
An earthquake here rolls harmless through the land,
And Thou art good because the chimneys stand —
There templed cities sink into the sea,
And damp survivors, howling as they flee,
Skip to the hills and hold a celebration
In honor of Thy wise discrimination.
O God, forgive them all, from Stoneman down,
Thy smile who construe and expound Thy frown,
And fall with saintly grace upon their knees
To render thanks when Thou dost only sneeze.
THREE KINDS OF A ROGUE
I
Sharon, ambitious of immortal shame,
Fame’s dead-wall daubed with his illustrious name —
Served in the Senate, for our sins, his time,
Each word a folly and each vote a crime;
Law for our governance well skilled to make
By knowledge gained in study how to break;
Yet still by the presiding eye ignored,
Which only sought him when too loud he snored.
Auspicious thunder! — when he woke to vote
He stilled his own to cut his country’s throat;
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 146
