 | The Baroness of New York |  |
138
IX.
This Mephistopheles now turned,
As if the whole gay world was spurned
As something quite beneath his care,
And said, with philosophic air:
“The fight goes on from year to year.
Yet bye and bye the Poppers will
Surrender and pass quite away;
As water finds its level. Still
In humbler spheres will they recount the day,
To wond'ring friends, and, sighing, say
How, once, great men on Murray Hill
Did pay them court, and how they drew
In wake, the world-famed Avenue.
As if the whole gay world was spurned
As something quite beneath his care,
And said, with philosophic air:
“The fight goes on from year to year.
Yet bye and bye the Poppers will
Surrender and pass quite away;
As water finds its level. Still
In humbler spheres will they recount the day,
To wond'ring friends, and, sighing, say
How, once, great men on Murray Hill
Did pay them court, and how they drew
In wake, the world-famed Avenue.
“In storied countries grand and old,
The Christian had the gates of gold
That wall God's paradise, in view;
But here he has Fifth Avenue.
The Christian had the gates of gold
That wall God's paradise, in view;
But here he has Fifth Avenue.
“Here shine no gates beyond for him;
All else is doubtful, vague, and dim,
The Paynim's roads led e'er to Rome.
The goal, the hope, eternal home,
That proud Manhattan has in view,
Is here; this fair Fifth Avenue.
All else is doubtful, vague, and dim,
The Paynim's roads led e'er to Rome.
139
That proud Manhattan has in view,
Is here; this fair Fifth Avenue.
“Lo! here upon this stony height,
The victors of the long, hard fight
With Mammon, where the thousands fell
To fill the trenches, that the few
Might pass to victory and tell
Their triumphs, are entrenched. Behold
Their mighty barricades of gold.”
The victors of the long, hard fight
With Mammon, where the thousands fell
To fill the trenches, that the few
Might pass to victory and tell
Their triumphs, are entrenched. Behold
Their mighty barricades of gold.”
Sir Francis shrugged and would have passed;
The lawyer clutched and held him fast.
This fellow like a carpet tack
Or cockle burr stuck sharp. Indeed
He was too thin of blood to bleed,
But sucked his fellow's blood. In fact
He was a vampyre: brown and wan
He was about the throat; a bat,
A hungry, sharp-nosed, smelling rat:
A man of fashion, yet the slave
Of getting, getting, getting on:
A dangerous and clever knave;
A crooked, ugly, carpet tack,
That was not safe to sit upon.
The lawyer clutched and held him fast.
This fellow like a carpet tack
Or cockle burr stuck sharp. Indeed
He was too thin of blood to bleed,
But sucked his fellow's blood. In fact
He was a vampyre: brown and wan
He was about the throat; a bat,
A hungry, sharp-nosed, smelling rat:
A man of fashion, yet the slave
Of getting, getting, getting on:
A dangerous and clever knave;
140
That was not safe to sit upon.
He was just such a man as you
Might choose in hard extremity to do
Some doubtful enterprise, that lay
Beyond your bound of conscience.
He
Had always character for you.
Since he was now no longer poor,
He kept a character at the door,
As some men keep a carriage. See!
My character! Steel springs! Bran new!
Might choose in hard extremity to do
Some doubtful enterprise, that lay
Beyond your bound of conscience.
He
Had always character for you.
Since he was now no longer poor,
He kept a character at the door,
As some men keep a carriage. See!
My character! Steel springs! Bran new!
The vilest man, was this same bore;
And I should like to swing him to
The great lamp-post that glares before
His mighty, massive, carven door,
That lords the splendid Avenue,
For telling things so vilely true.
And I should like to swing him to
The great lamp-post that glares before
His mighty, massive, carven door,
That lords the splendid Avenue,
For telling things so vilely true.
A lawyer? liar? much the same
In practice, quite as well as name.
I did not make him. Hear me through.
I hate him heartily as you,
And yet between us, you and I,
No lands or lines in common lie.
In practice, quite as well as name.
I did not make him. Hear me through.
I hate him heartily as you,
141
No lands or lines in common lie.
I am not of your flock. Drive all
Your sheep in herd from field to stall;
Mark them! brand them! And if one
Dare stand alone, look back, or run,
Give him the dogs!
Nay, let me keep
The bleak, bare hills alone, aloof.
Rather a goat than such a sheep!
A right to laugh; and the room to leap!
Rather the wild, cold crags where I
May dare its height; may strike my hoof—
Wag my head at the world and die.
Your sheep in herd from field to stall;
Mark them! brand them! And if one
Dare stand alone, look back, or run,
Give him the dogs!
Nay, let me keep
The bleak, bare hills alone, aloof.
Rather a goat than such a sheep!
A right to laugh; and the room to leap!
Rather the wild, cold crags where I
May dare its height; may strike my hoof—
Wag my head at the world and die.
I am not of you. I love not you.
I hate and abhor your middle-class.
Your mule, that's neither a horse nor ass,
But holds the worst parts of the two.
I hate and abhor your middle-class.
Your mule, that's neither a horse nor ass,
But holds the worst parts of the two.
I hate your middle-men; men who
Are ever striving, straining to
A place they don't fit in. They rise,
They hang between the earth and skies,
As hung the prophet's coffin. Lies
Are on their lips, in all their deeds.
Their lives are lies, their hollow creeds
Make infidel, sweet souls that bloom
On humble ground, in lonely gloom.
Are ever striving, straining to
A place they don't fit in. They rise,
They hang between the earth and skies,
142
Are on their lips, in all their deeds.
Their lives are lies, their hollow creeds
Make infidel, sweet souls that bloom
On humble ground, in lonely gloom.
Write me not of that class. My name,
Thank God, is not of these. I claim
No middle-class or place. I lie
Secure, and shall not fall, for I
Am of the lowliest lot—as low
As God's own sweetest flowers grow.
Thank God, is not of these. I claim
No middle-class or place. I lie
Secure, and shall not fall, for I
Am of the lowliest lot—as low
As God's own sweetest flowers grow.
| The Baroness of New York | |