Two seized his legs, and one his head,
     The fourth his trunk, to munch on;
The fifth preferred an arm instead;
The last, with rueful visage, said: 
     “Pray what have I for luncheon?”

Then to that disappointed bear
     Said Steele, serene and chipper,
“My friend, you shall not lack your share: 
Look in the Treasury, and there
     You’ll find his other flipper.”

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF THEFT

In fair Yosemite, that den of thieves
  Wherein the minions of the moon divide
The travelers’ purses, lo! the Devil grieves,
  His larger share as leader still denied.

El Capitan, foreseeing that his reign
  May be disputed too, beclouds his head. 
The joyous Bridal Veil is torn in twain
  And the crepe steamer dangles there instead.

The Vernal Fall abates her pleasant speed
  And hesitates to take the final plunge,
For rumors reach her that another greed
  Awaits her in the Valley of the Sponge.

The Brothers envy the accord of mind
  And peace of purpose (by the good deplored
As honor among Commissioners) which bind
  That confraternity of crime, the Board.

The Half-Dome bows its riven face to weep,
  But not, as formerly, because bereft: 
Prophetic dreams afflict him when asleep
  Of losing his remaining half by theft.

Ambitious knaves! has not the upper sod
  Enough of room for every crime that crawls
But you must loot the Palaces of God
  And daub your filthy names upon the walls?

DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN

Within my dark and narrow bed
  I rested well, new-laid: 
I heard above my fleshless head
  The grinding of a spade.

A gruffer note ensued and grew
  To harsh and harsher strains: 
The poet Welcker then I knew
  Was “snatching” my remains.

“O Welcker, let your hand be stayed
  And leave me here in peace. 
Of your revenge you should have made
  An end with my decease.”

“Hush, Mouldyshanks, and hear my moan: 
  I once, as you’re aware,
Was eminent in letters—­known
  And honored everywhere.

“My splendor made all Berkeley bright
  And Sacramento blind. 
Men swore no writer e’er could write
  Like me—­if I’d a mind.

“With honors all insatiate,
  With curst ambition smit,
Too far, alas!  I tempted fate—­
  I published what I’d writ!

“Good Heaven! with what a hunger wild
  Oblivion swallows fame! 
Men who have known me from a child
  Forget my very name!

“Even creditors with searching looks
  My face cannot recall;
My heaviest one—­he prints my books—­
  Oblivious most of all.

“O I should feel a sweet content
  If one poor dun his claim
Would bring to me for settlement,
  And bully me by name.