Excerpt
SUPPRESSED POEMS. THE JOURNALISTS AND MINOS.I chanced the other eve,—But how I ne'er will tell,—The paper to receive.That's published down in hell.In general one may guess,I little care to seeThis free-corps of the pressGot up so easily;But suddenly my eyesA side-note chanced to meet,And fancy my surpriseAt reading in the sheet:—"For twenty weary springs"(The post from Erebus,Remark me, always bringsUnpleasant news to us)—"Through want of water, weHave well-nigh lost our breath;In great perplexityHell came and asked for Death;"'They can wade through the Styx,Catch crabs in Lethe's flood;Old Charon's in a fix,His boat lies in the mud,"'The dead leap over there,The young and old as well;The boatman gets no fare,And loudly curses hell.'"King Minos bade his spiesIn all directions go;The devils needs must rise,And bring him news below."Hurrah! The secret's toldThey've caught the robber's nest;A merry feast let's hold!Come, hell, and join the rest!"An author's countless band,Stalked round Cocytus' brink,Each bearing in his handA glass for holding ink."And into casks they drewThe water, strange to say,As boys suck sweet wine throughAn elder-reed in play."Quick! o'er them cast the net,Ere they have time to flee!Warm welcome ye will get,So come to Sans-souci!"Smelt by the king ere long,He sharpened up his tooth,And thus addressed the throng(Full angrily, in truth):"'The robbers is't we see?What trade? What land, perchance?'—'German news-writers we!'—Enough to make us dance!"'A wish I long have knownTo bid ye stop and dine,Ere ye by Death were mown,That brother-in-law of mine."'Yet now by Styx I swear,Whose flood ye would imbibe,That torments and despairShall fill your vermin-tribe!"'The pitcher seeks the well,Till broken 'tis one day;They who for ink would smell,The penalty must pay."'So seize them by their thumbs,And loosen straight my beastE'en now he licks his gums,Impatient for the feast.'—"How quivered every limbBeneath the bull-dog's jawsTheir honors baited him,And he allowed no pause."Convulsively they swear,Still writhe the rabble rout,Engaged with anxious careIn pumping Lethe out."Ye Christians, good and meek,This vision bear in mind;If journalists ye seek,Attempt their thumbs to find.Defects they often hide,As folks whose hairs are goneWe see with wigs suppliedProbatum! I have done! BACCHUS IN THE PILLORY.Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumbDeaf and dumb,Twirl the cane so troublesome!Sprigs of fashion by the dozenThou dost bring to book, good cousin.Cousin, thou art not in clover;Many a head that's filled with smokeThou hast twirled and well-nigh broke,Many a clever one perplexed,Many a stomach sorely vexed,Turning it completely over;Many a hat put on awry,Many a lamb chased cruelly,Made streets, houses, edges, trees,Dance around us fools with ease.Therefore thou are not in clover,Therefore thou, like other folk,Hast thy head filled full of smoke,Therefore thou, too, art perplexed,And thy stomach's sorely vexed,For 'tis turned completely over;Therefore thou art not in clover....