Says Gerald Massey: “When I
write, a band
Of souls of the departed guides my hand.”
How strange that poems cumbering our shelves,
Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves!
TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST.
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
knew
To 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
wine
Boast 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
alone
Has power to push you from your robber
throne.
When to escape you he’s compelled
to die
Hey! presto!—in the twinkling
of an eye
You vanish as a tapeworm, reappear
As graveworm and resume your curst career.
As host no more, to satisfy your need
He 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 abate
To lick the spittle of the rich and great;
While still like smoke your eulogies arise
To soot your heroes and inflame our eyes;
While still with holy oil, like that which
ran
Down Aaron’s beard, you smear each
famous man,
I cannot choose but think it very odd
It ne’er occurs to you to fawn on
God.
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