Let lowly themes engage my humble pen—
Stupidities of critics, not of men.
Be it mine once more the maunderings to
trace
Of the expounders’ self-directed
race—
Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine,
Of diligent vacuity the sign.
Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse
The moral meaning of the random verse
That runs spontaneous from the poet’s
pen
To be half-blotted by ambitious men
Who hope with his their meaner names to
link
By writing o’er it in another ink
The thoughts unreal which they think they
think,
Until the mental eye in vain inspects
The hateful palimpsest to find the text.
The lark ascending heavenward, loud and
long
Sings to the dawning day his wanton song.
The moaning dove, attentive to the sound,
Its hidden meaning hastens to expound:
Explains its principles, design—in
brief,
Pronounces it a parable of grief!
The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his
thigh
With pollen from a hollyhock near by,
Declares he never heard in terms so just
The labor problem thoughtfully discussed!
The browsing ass looks up and clears his
whistle
To say: “A monologue upon the
thistle!”
Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds
his wing
And innocently asks: “What!—did
I sing?”
O literary parasites! who thrive
Upon the fame of better men, derive
Your sustenance by suction, like a leech,
And, for you preach of them, think masters
preach,—
Who find it half is profit, half delight,
To write about what you could never write,—
Consider, pray, how sharp had been the
throes
Of famine and discomfiture in those
You write of if they had been critics,
too,
And doomed to write of nothing but of
you!
Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder
tent,
To see the lion resolutely bent!
The prosing showman who the beast displays
Grows rich and richer daily in its praise.
But how if, to attract the curious yeoman,
The lion owned the show and showed the
showman?
RELIGIOUS PROGRESS.
Every religion is important. When
men rise above existing
conditions a new religion comes in, and
it is better
than the old one.—Professor
Howison.
Professor dear, I think it queer
That all these good religions
(’Twixt you and me, some two or
three
Are schemes for plucking pigeons)—
I mean ’tis strange that every change
Our poor minds to unfetter
Entails a new religion—true
As t’ other one, and
better.
From each in turn the truth we learn,
That wood or flesh or spirit
May justly boast it rules the roast
Until we cease to fear it.
Nay, once upon a time long gone
Man worshipped Cat and Lizard:
His God he’d find in any kind
Of beast, from a to izzard.
When risen above his early love
Of dirt and blood and slumber,
He pulled down these vain deities,
And made one out of lumber.
“Far better that than even a cat,”
The Howisons all shouted;
“When God is wood religion’s
good!”
But one poor cynic doubted.
“A timber God—that’s
very odd!”
Said Progress, and invented
The simple plan to worship Man,
Who, kindly soul! consented.
But soon our eye we lift asky,
Our vows all unregarded,
And find (at least so says the priest)
The Truth—and Man’s
discarded.
Along our line of march recline
Dead gods devoid of feeling;
And thick about each sun-cracked lout
Dried Howisons are kneeling.
