And vanished capitals of men, shall spring
To flame, and naught shall be for evermore! 
When all are risen that wonder will occur. 
’Twas but ten centuries ago the last
But one came forth—­a soul so black with sin,
Against whose name so many crimes were set
That only now his trial is at end. 
But one remains.”

Straight, as the voice was stilled—­
That single rounded mound cracked lengthliwise
And one came forth in grave-clothes.  For a space
He stood and gazed about him with a smile
Superior; then laying off his shroud
Disclosed his two attenuated legs
Which, like parentheses, bent outwardly
As by the weight of saintliness above,
And so sprang upward and was lost to view
Noting his headstone overthrown, I read: 
“Sacred to memory of George K. Fitch,
Deacon and Editor—­a holy man
Who fell asleep in Jesus, full of years
And blessedness.  The dead in Christ rise first.”

MASTER OF THREE ARTS

Your various talents, Goldenson, command
  Respect:  you are a poet and can draw. 
It is a pity that your gifted hand
  Should ever have been raised against the law. 
If you had drawn no pistol, but a picture,
You would have saved your throttle from a stricture.

About your poetry I’m not so sure: 
  ’Tis certain we have much that’s quite as bad,
Whose hardy writers have not to endure
  The hangman’s fondling.  It is said they’re mad: 
Though lately Mr. Brooks (I mean the poet)
Looked well, and if demented didn’t show it.

Well, Goldenson, I am a poet, too—­
  Taught by the muses how to smite the harp
And lift the tuneful voice, although, like you
  And Brooks, I sometimes flat and sometimes sharp. 
But let me say, with no desire to taunt you,
I never murder even the girls I want to.

I hold it one of the poetic laws
  To sing of life, not take.  I’ve ever shown
A high regard for human life because
  I have such trouble to support my own. 
And you—­well, you’ll find trouble soon in blowing
Your private coal to keep it red and glowing.

I fancy now I see you at the Gate
  Approach St. Peter, crawling on your belly,
You cry:  “Good sir, take pity on my state—­
  Forgive the murderer of Mamie Kelly!”
And Peter says:  “O, that’s all right—­but, mister,
You scribbled rhymes.  In Hell I’ll make you
     blister!”

THERSITES

So, in the Sunday papers you, Del Mar,
    Damn, all great Englishmen in English speech? 
    I am no Englishman, but in my reach
A rogue shall never rail where heroes are.

You are the man, if I mistake you not,
    Who lately with a supplicating twitch
    Plucked at the pockets of the London rich
And paid your share-engraver all you got.