So much a column? The press, of course, will publish news However it may get it; But blast the sheriff who'll abuse His powers to let it! Nay, this is not ingratitude; I'm no reporter, truly, Nor yet an editor. I'm rude Because unruly—    Because I burn with shame and rage Beyond my power of telling To see assassins in a cage And keepers yelling.    "Walk up! Walk up!" the showman cries:     "Observe the lion's poses, His stormy mane, his glooming eyes. His—hold your noses!"    How long, O Lord, shall Law and Right Be mocked for gain or glory, And angels weep as they recite The shameful story? 

 

 THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF A SOUL

   What! Pixley, must I hear you call the roll Of all the vices that infest your soul? Was't not enough that lately you did bawl Your money-worship in the ears of all?[A]   Still must you crack your brazen cheek to tell That though a miser you're a sot as well? Still must I hear how low your taste has sunk—   From getting money down to getting drunk?[B]    Who worships money, damning all beside, And shows his callous knees with pious pride, Speaks with half-knowledge, for no man e'er scorns His own possessions, be they coins or corns. You've money, neighbor; had you gentle birth You'd know, as now you never can, its worth. You've money; learning is beyond your scope, Deaf to your envy, stubborn to your hope. But if upon your undeserving head Science and letters had their glory shed; If in the cavern of your skull the light Of knowledge shone where now eternal night Breeds the blind, poddy, vapor-fatted naughts Of cerebration that you think are thoughts—   Black bats in cold and dismal corners hung That squeak and gibber when you move your tongue—   You would not write, in Avarice's defense, A senseless eulogy on lack of sense, Nor show your eagerness to sacrifice All noble virtues to one loathsome vice.    You've money; if you'd manners too you'd shame To boast your weakness or your baseness name. Appraise the things you have, but measure not The things denied to your unhappy lot. He values manners lighter than a cork Who combs his beard at table with a fork. Hare to seek sin and tortoise to forsake, The laws of taste condemn you to the stake To expiate, where all the world may see, The crime of growing old disgracefully. Religion, learning, birth and manners, too, All that distinguishes a man from you, Pray damn at will: all shining virtues gain An added luster from a rogue's disdain. But spare the young that proselyting sin, A toper's apotheosis of gin. If 

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