And when discharged (for war’s a sport
    So hot he had to leave it)
He made a very loud report,
    But no one did believe it.

AN “EXHIBIT”

Goldenson hanged!  Well, Heaven forbid
  That I should smile above him: 
Though truth to tell, I never did
  Exactly love him.

It can’t be wrong, though, to rejoice
  That his unpleasing capers
Are ended.  Silent is his voice
  In all the papers.

No longer he’s a show:  no more,
  Bear-like, his den he’s walking. 
No longer can he hold the floor
  When I’d be talking.

The laws that govern jails are bad
  If such displays are lawful. 
The fate of the assassin’s sad,
  But ours is awful!

What! shall a wretch condemned to die
  In shame upon the gibbet
Be set before the public eye
  As an “exhibit"?—­

His looks, his actions noted down,
  His words if light or solemn,
And all this hawked about the town—­
  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.