The collected works of Ambrose Bierce

As in a dream, strange epitaphs I see,
Inscribed on yet unquarried stone,
Where wither flowers yet unstrown—
The Campo Santo of the time to be.

LORING PICKERING

(After Pope)

Here rests a writer, great but not immense,
Born destitute of feeling and of sense.
No power he but o'er his brain desired—
How not to suffer it to be inspired.
Ideas unto him were all unknown,
Proud of the words which only were his own.
So unreflecting, so confused his mind,
Torpid in error, indolently blind,
A fever Heaven to quicken him applied,
But rather than revive, the sluggard died.

374

A WATER-PIRATE

Pause, stranger—whence you lightly tread
Bill Carr's immoral part has fled.
For him no heart of woman burned,
But all the rivers' heads he turned.
Alas! he now lifts up his eyes
In torment and for water cries,
Entreating that he may procure
One drop to cool his parched McClure!

THE REV. JOSEPH HEMPHILL

He preached that sickness he could floor
By prayer and by commanding;
When sick himself he sent for four
Physicians in good standing.
He was struck dead despite their care,
For, fearing their dissension,
He secretly put up a prayer,
Thus drawing God's attention.

OTHERS

[Cynic perforce from studying mankind]

Cynic perforce from studying mankind
In the false volume of his single mind,
He damned his fellows for his own unworth,
And, bad himself, thought nothing good on earth.
Yet, still so judging, and so erring still,

375

Observing well, but understanding ill,
His learning all was got by dint of sight,
And what he knew by day he lost by night.
When hired to flatter he would never cease
Till those who'd paid for praises paid for peace.
Not wholly miser and but half a knave,
He yearned to squander but he lived to save,
And did not, for he could not, cheat the grave.
Hic jacet Pixley, scribe and muleteer:
Step lightly, stranger, anywhere but here.

[McAllister, of talents rich are rare]

McAllister, of talents rich are rare,
Lies at this spot at finish of his race.
Alike to him if it is here or there:
The one spot that he cared for was the ace.

[Here lies Joseph Redding, who gave us the catfish]

Here lies Joseph Redding, who gave us the catfish.
He dined upon every fish except that fish.
'Twas touching to hear him expounding his fad
With a heart full of zeal and a mouth full of shad.
The catfish all mewed with unspeakable woe
When Death, the lone fisherman, landed their Jo.

[Judge Sawyer, whom in vain the people tried]

Judge Sawyer, whom in vain the people tried
To push from power, here is laid aside.
Death only from the bench could ever start
That clinging surface, his immortal part.

376

In Sacramento City here
This wooden monument we rear
In memory of Dr. May,
Whose smile even Death could not allay.
He's buried, Heaven alone knows where,
And only the hyenas care;
This May-pole merely marks the spot
Where, ere the wretch began to rot,
Fame's trumpet, with its brazen bray,
Bawled: “Who (and why) was Dr. May?”

[Dennis Spencer's mortal coil]

Dennis Spencer's mortal coil
Here is laid away to spoil—
Great riparian who said
Not a stream should leave its bed.
Now his soul would have a river
Turned upon its parching liver.

[For those this mausoleum is erected]

For those this mausoleum is erected
Who Stanford to the Upper House elected.
Their luck is less or their promotion slower,
For, dead, they were elected to the Lower.

[Beneath this stone sleeps Reuben Lloyd]

Beneath this stone sleeps Reuben Lloyd,
Of breath deprived, of sense devoid.
The Templars' Captain-General, he

377

So formidable seemed to be,
That had he not been on his back
Death ne'er had ventured to attack.

[Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse]

Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse—
So small a tenant of so big a house!

Who loved to loll on the Parnassian mount,
His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count.

What poetry he'd written but for lack
Of skill, when he had counted, to count back!

Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep
To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep!

To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs
And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings.

No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine,
Expand their ears and hiccough: “That's divine!”

The genius of his purse no longer draws
The pleasing thunders of a paid applause.

All silent now; nor sound nor sense remains,
Though riddances of worms improve his brains.

All his no talents to the earth revert,
And Fame concludes the record: “Dirt to dirt!”

378

[This grave holds Barnes in all his glory]

This grave holds Barnes in all his glory—
Master he of oratOry.
When he died the people, weeping
(For they thought him only sleeping)
Cried: “Although he now is quiet
And his tongue is not a riot,
Soon, the spell that binds him breaking,
He a motion will be making.
Then, alas, he'll rise and speak
In support of it a week.”

[Rash mortal! stay thy feet and look around]

Rash mortal! stay thy feet and look around—
This vacant tomb as yet is holy ground;
But soon, alas! Jim Fair will occupy
These premises—then, holiness, good-bye!

[Here Salomon's body reposes]

Here Salomon's body reposes;
Bring roses, ye rebels, bring roses.
Set all of your drumsticks a-moving,
Discretion and Valor approving;
Discretion—he always retreated—
And Valor—the dead he defeated.
Bring roses, ye loyal, bring roses:
As patriot here he re-poses.

379

[When Waterman ended his bright career]

When Waterman ended his bright career
He left his wet name to history here.
To carry it with him he thought unfair:
'Twould tantalize spirits of statemen There.

[Here lies the remains of Fred Emerson Brooks]

Here lies the remains of Fred Emerson Brooks,
A poet, as every one knew by his looks
Who hadn't, unluckily, met with his books.

On civic occasions he sprang to the fore
With poems consisting of stanzas three score.
The men whom they deafened enjoyed them the more.

In this peaceful spot, so the grave-diggers say,
With pen, ink and paper they laid him away—
The Poet-elect of the Judgment Day.

[George Perry here is stiff and stark]

George Perry here is stiff and stark,
With stone at foot and stone at head.
His heart was dark, his mind was dark—
“Ignorant ass!” the people said.

Not ignorant but skilled, alas,
In all the secrets of his trade:
He knew more ways to be an ass
Than any ass that ever brayed.

380

[Here lies the last of Deacon Fitch]

Here lies the last of Deacon Fitch,
Whose business was to melt the pitch.
Convenient to this sacred spot
Lies Sammy, who applied it hot.
'Tis hard—so much alike they smell—
One's grave from t'other's grave to tell,
But when his tomb the Deacon's burst
(Of two he'll always be the first)
He'll see by studying the stones
That he's obtained his proper bones,
Then, seeking Sammy's vault, unlock it,
And put that person in his pocket.

[Beneath this stone O'Donnell's tongue's at rest]

Beneath this stone O'Donnell's tongue's at rest—
Our noses by his spirit still addressed.
Living or dead, he's equally Satanic—
His noise a terror and his smell a panic.

[Hangman's hands laid in this tomb an]

Hangman's hands laid in this tomb an
Imp of Satan's getting, whom an
Ancient legend says that woman
Never bore—he owed his birth
To Sin herself. From Hell to Earth

381

She brought the brat in secret state
And laid him at the Golden Gate,
And they named him Henry Vrooman.
While with mortals here he stayed,
His father frequently he played.
Raised his birth-place and in other
Playful ways begot his mother.

[When Gabriel blows a dreadful blast]

When Gabriel blows a dreadful blast
And swears that Time's forever past,
Days, weeks, months, years all one at last,
Then Asa Fiske, lying here unblest,
Will beat (and skin his hand) his breast:
There'll be no rate of interest!

[Here Porter Ashe is in the ground]

Here Porter Ashe is in the ground
Green grows the grass upon his mound.
This patron of the turf, I vow,
Ne'er served it half so well as now.

[Here Stanford lies, who thought it odd]

Here Stanford lies, who thought it odd
That he should go to meet his God.
He looked, until his eyes grew dim,
For God to hasten to meet him.

University of Virginia Library

ON STONE