Shapes of Clay Read online

Seein' yer name is unbeknown to me.

  "Ther' was a time, I reckon, when I knowed

  Nigh onto every dern galoot in town.

  That was as late as '50. Now she's growed

  Surprisin'! Yes, me an' my pardner, Brown,

  Was wide acquainted. If ther' was a cuss

  We didn't know, the cause was—he knowed us.

  "Maybe you had that claim adjoinin' mine

  Up thar in Calaveras. Was it you

  To which Long Mary took a mighty shine,

  An' throwed squar' off on Jake the Kangaroo?

  I guess if she could see ye now she'd take

  Her chance o' happiness along o' Jake.

  "You ain't so purty now as you was then:

  Yer eyes is nothin' but two prospect holes,

  An' women which are hitched to better men

  Would hardly for sech glances damn their souls,

  As Lengthie did. By G——! I hope it's you,

  For" (kicks the skull) "I'm Jake the Kangaroo."

  A VISION OF DOOM.

  I stood upon a hill. The setting sun

  Was crimson with a curse and a portent,

  And scarce his angry ray lit up the land

  That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared

  Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up

  From dim tarns hateful with some horrid ban,

  Took shapes forbidden and without a name.

  Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds

  With cries discordant, startled all the air,

  And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom—

  The ghosts of blasphemies long ages stilled,

  And shrieks of women, and men's curses. All

  These visible shapes, and sounds no mortal ear

  Had ever heard, some spiritual sense

  Interpreted, though brokenly; for I

  Was haunted by a consciousness of crime,

  Some giant guilt, but whose I knew not. All

  These things malign, by sight and sound revealed,

  Were sin-begotten; that I knew—no more—

  And that but dimly, as in dreadful dreams

  The sleepy senses babble to the brain

  Imperfect witness. As I stood a voice,

  But whence it came I knew not, cried aloud

  Some words to me in a forgotten tongue,

  Yet straight I knew me for a ghost forlorn,

  Returned from the illimited inane.

  Again, but in a language that I knew,

  As in reply to something which in me

  Had shaped itself a thought, but found no words,

  It spake from the dread mystery about:

  "Immortal shadow of a mortal soul

  That perished with eternity, attend.

  What thou beholdest is as void as thou:

  The shadow of a poet's dream—himself

  As thou, his soul as thine, long dead,

  But not like thine outlasted by its shade.

  His dreams alone survive eternity

  As pictures in the unsubstantial void.

  Excepting thee and me (and we because

  The poet wove us in his thought) remains

  Of nature and the universe no part

  Or vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread,

  Unspeakable land about thy feet, with all

  Its desolation and its terrors—lo!

  'T is but a phantom world. So long ago

  That God and all the angels since have died

  That poet lived—yourself long dead—his mind

  Filled with the light of a prophetic fire,

  And standing by the Western sea, above

  The youngest, fairest city in the world,

  Named in another tongue than his for one

  Ensainted, saw its populous domain

  Plague-smitten with a nameless shame. For there

  Red-handed murder rioted; and there

  The people gathered gold, nor cared to loose

  The assassin's fingers from the victim's throat,

  But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed:

  'Am I my brother's keeper? Let the Law

  Look to the matter.' But the Law did not.

  And there, O pitiful! the babe was slain

  Within its mother's breast and the same grave

  Held babe and mother; and the people smiled,

  Still gathering gold, and said: 'The Law, the Law,'

  Then the great poet, touched upon the lips

  With a live coal from Truth's high altar, raised

  His arms to heaven and sang a song of doom—

  Sang of the time to be, when God should lean

  Indignant from the Throne and lift his hand,

  And that foul city be no more!—a tale,

  A dream, a desolation and a curse!

  No vestige of its glory should survive

  In fact or memory: its people dead,

  Its site forgotten, and its very name

  Disputed."

  "Was the prophecy fulfilled?"

  The sullen disc of the declining sun

  Was crimson with a curse and a portent,

  And scarce his angry ray lit up the land

  That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared

  Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up

  From dim tarns hateful with a horrid ban,

  Took shapes forbidden and without a name.

  Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds

  With cries discordant, startled all the air,

  And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom.

  But not to me came any voice again;

  And, covering my face with thin, dead hands,

  I wept, and woke, and cried aloud to God!

  POLITICS.

  That land full surely hastens to its end

  Where public sycophants in homage bend

  The populace to flatter, and repeat

  The doubled echoes of its loud conceit.

  Lowly their attitude but high their aim,

  They creep to eminence through paths of shame,

  Till fixed securely in the seats of pow'r,

  The dupes they flattered they at last devour.

  POESY.

  Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire

  That shines, Oblivion, above thy mire.

  The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk,

  And sinks his brother ere himself is sunk.

  So die ingloriously Fame's élite,

  But dams of dunces keep the line complete.

  IN DEFENSE.

  You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls

  Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls;

  But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle

  Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile.

  Nay, titles, 'tis said in defense of our fair,

  Are popular here because popular there;

  And for them our ladies persistently go

  Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know.

  Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess

  The effort's attended with easy success;

  And—pardon the freedom—'tis thought, over here,

  'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer.

  It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade

  Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee maid,

  But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose

  No sound is so sweet as that "Yes" from the nose.

  Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the street

  (Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate feet!)

  'Tis a habit they got here at home, where they say

  The men from politeness go seldom astray.

  Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot

  Can stand it (God succor them if they cannot!)

  Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure,

  And what they 're not called on to suffer, endure.

  "'Tis nothin
g but money?" "Your nobles are bought?"

  As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought

  That England's a country not specially free

  Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesae.

  You've many a widow and many a girl

  With money to purchase a duke or an earl.

  'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree,

  When goods import buyers from over the sea.

  Alas for the woman of Albion's isle!

  She may simper; as well as she can she may smile;

  She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose—

  But my lord of the future will talk through his nose.

  AN INVOCATION.

  [Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San

  Francisco, in 1888.]

  Goddess of Liberty! O thou

  Whose tearless eyes behold the chain,

  And look unmoved upon the slain,

  Eternal peace upon thy brow,—

  Before thy shrine the races press,

  Thy perfect favor to implore—

  The proudest tyrant asks no more,

  The ironed anarchist no less.

  Thine altar-coals that touch the lips

  Of prophets kindle, too, the brand

  By Discord flung with wanton hand

  Among the houses and the ships.

  Upon thy tranquil front the star

  Burns bleak and passionless and white,

  Its cold inclemency of light

  More dreadful than the shadows are.

  Thy name we do not here invoke

  Our civic rites to sanctify:

  Enthroned in thy remoter sky,

  Thou heedest not our broken yoke.

  Thou carest not for such as we:

  Our millions die to serve the still

  And secret purpose of thy will.

  They perish—what is that to thee?

  The light that fills the patriot's tomb

  Is not of thee. The shining crown

  Compassionately offered down

  To those who falter in the gloom,

  And fall, and call upon thy name,

  And die desiring—'tis the sign

  Of a diviner love than thine,

  Rewarding with a richer fame.

  To him alone let freemen cry

  Who hears alike the victor's shout,

  The song of faith, the moan of doubt,

  And bends him from his nearer sky.

  God of my country and my race!

  So greater than the gods of old—

  So fairer than the prophets told

  Who dimly saw and feared thy face,—

  Who didst but half reveal thy will

  And gracious ends to their desire,

  Behind the dawn's advancing fire

  Thy tender day-beam veiling still,—

  To whom the unceasing suns belong,

  And cause is one with consequence,—

  To whose divine, inclusive sense

  The moan is blended with the song,—

  Whose laws, imperfect and unjust,

  Thy just and perfect purpose serve:

  The needle, howsoe'er it swerve,

  Still warranting the sailor's trust,—

  God, lift thy hand and make us free

  To crown the work thou hast designed.

  O, strike away the chains that bind

  Our souls to one idolatry!

  The liberty thy love hath given

  We thank thee for. We thank thee for

  Our great dead fathers' holy war

  Wherein our manacles were riven.

  We thank thee for the stronger stroke

  Ourselves delivered and incurred

  When—thine incitement half unheard—

  The chains we riveted we broke.

  We thank thee that beyond the sea

  The people, growing ever wise,

  Turn to the west their serious eyes

  And dumbly strive to be as we.

  As when the sun's returning flame

  Upon the Nileside statue shone,

  And struck from the enchanted stone

  The music of a mighty fame,

  Let Man salute the rising day

  Of Liberty, but not adore.

  'Tis Opportunity—no more—

  A useful, not a sacred, ray.

  It bringeth good, it bringeth ill,

  As he possessing shall elect.

  He maketh it of none effect

  Who walketh not within thy will.

  Give thou or more or less, as we

  Shall serve the right or serve the wrong.

  Confirm our freedom but so long

  As we are worthy to be free.

  But when (O, distant be the time!)

  Majorities in passion draw

  Insurgent swords to murder Law,

  And all the land is red with crime;

  Or—nearer menace!—when the band

  Of feeble spirits cringe and plead

  To the gigantic strength of Greed,

  And fawn upon his iron hand;—

  Nay, when the steps to state are worn

  In hollows by the feet of thieves,

  And Mammon sits among the sheaves

  And chuckles while the reapers mourn;

  Then stay thy miracle!—replace

  The broken throne, repair the chain,

  Restore the interrupted reign

  And veil again thy patient face.

  Lo! here upon the world's extreme

  We stand with lifted arms and dare

  By thine eternal name to swear

  Our country, which so fair we deem—

  Upon whose hills, a bannered throng,

  The spirits of the sun display

  Their flashing lances day by day

  And hear the sea's pacific song—

  Shall be so ruled in right and grace

  That men shall say: "O, drive afield

  The lawless eagle from the shield,

  And call an angel to the place!"

  RELIGION.

  Hassan Bedreddin, clad in rags, ill-shod,

  Sought the great temple of the living God.

  The worshippers arose and drove him forth,

  And one in power beat him with a rod.

  "Allah," he cried, "thou seest what I got;

  Thy servants bar me from the sacred spot."

  "Be comforted," the Holy One replied;

  "It is the only place where I am not."

  A MORNING FANCY.

  I drifted (or I seemed to) in a boat

  Upon the surface of a shoreless sea

  Whereon no ship nor anything did float,

  Save only the frail bark supporting me;

  And that—it was so shadowy—seemed to be

  Almost from out the very vapors wrought

  Of the great ocean underneath its keel;

  And all that blue profound appeared as naught

  But thicker sky, translucent to reveal,

  Miles down, whatever through its spaces glided,

  Or at the bottom traveled or abided.

  Great cities there I saw—of rich and poor,

  The palace and the hovel; mountains, vales,

  Forest and field, the desert and the moor,

  Tombs of the good and wise who'd lived in jails,

  And seas of denser fluid, white with sails

  Pushed at by currents moving here and there

  And sensible to sight above the flat

  Of that opaquer deep. Ah, strange and fair

  The nether world that I was gazing at

  With beating heart from that exalted level,

  And—lest I founder—trembling like the devil!

  The cities all were populous: men swarmed

  In public places—chattered, laughed and wept;

  And savages their shining bodies warmed

  At fires in primal woods. The wild beast leapt

  Upon its prey and slew it as it slept.
<
br />   Armies went forth to battle on the plain

  So far, far down in that unfathomed deep

  The living seemed as silent as the slain,

  Nor even the widows could be heard to weep.

  One might have thought their shaking was but laughter;

  And, truly, most were married shortly after.

  Above the wreckage of that silent fray

  Strange fishes swam in circles, round and round—

  Black, double-finned; and once a little way

  A bubble rose and burst without a sound

  And a man tumbled out upon the ground.

  Lord! 'twas an eerie thing to drift apace

  On that pellucid sea, beneath black skies

  And o'er the heads of an undrowning race;

  And when I woke I said—to her surprise

  Who came with chocolate, for me to drink it:

  "The atmosphere is deeper than you think it."

  VISIONS OF SIN.

  KRASLAJORSK, SIBERIA, March 29.

  "My eyes are better, and I shall travel slowly toward home."

  DANENHOWER.

  From the regions of the Night,

  Coming with recovered sight—

  From the spell of darkness free,

  What will Danenhower see?

  He will see when he arrives,

  Doctors taking human lives.

  He will see a learned judge

  Whose decision will not budge

  Till both litigants are fleeced

  And his palm is duly greased.

  Lawyers he will see who fight

  Day by day and night by night;

  Never both upon a side,

  Though their fees they still divide.

  Preachers he will see who teach

  That it is divine to preach—

  That they fan a sacred fire

  And are worthy of their hire.

  He will see a trusted wife

  (Pride of some good husband's life)

  Enter at a certain door

  And—but he will see no more.

  He will see Good Templars reel—

  See a prosecutor steal,

  And a father beat his child.

  He'll perhaps see Oscar Wilde.

  From the regions of the Night

  Coming with recovered sight—

  From the bliss of blindness free,

  That's what Danenhower'll see.

  1882.

  THE TOWN OF DAE.

  Swains and maidens, young and old,

  You to me this tale have told.