 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
184
FAME
One thousand years I slept beneath the sod,
My sleep in 1901 beginning,
Then, by the action of some scurvy god
Who happened then to recollect my sinning,
I was revived and given another inning.
On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd—
A formless multitude of men and women,
Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud
I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in;
And, pointing at me, one said: “Let's put him in!”
Then each turned on me with an evil look,
As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook.
My sleep in 1901 beginning,
Then, by the action of some scurvy god
Who happened then to recollect my sinning,
I was revived and given another inning.
On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd—
A formless multitude of men and women,
Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud
I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in;
And, pointing at me, one said: “Let's put him in!”
Then each turned on me with an evil look,
As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook.
“Nay, good Posterity,” I cried, “forbear!
If that's a jail I fain would be remaining
Outside, for truly I should little care
To catch my death of cold. I'm just regaining
The life lost long ago by my disdaining
To take precautions against draughts like those
That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting
Old structure.” Then an aged wight arose
From a chair of state in which he had been sitting,
And with preliminary coughing, spitting
And wheezing, said: “'Tis not a jail, we're sure,
Whate'er it may have been when it was newer.
If that's a jail I fain would be remaining
Outside, for truly I should little care
To catch my death of cold. I'm just regaining
The life lost long ago by my disdaining
To take precautions against draughts like those
That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting
Old structure.” Then an aged wight arose
From a chair of state in which he had been sitting,
And with preliminary coughing, spitting
And wheezing, said: “'Tis not a jail, we're sure,
Whate'er it may have been when it was newer.
185
“'Twas found two centuries ago, o'ergrown
With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated;
And in restoring it we found a stone
Set here and there in the dilapidated
And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated
Big characters, with certain uncouth names,
Which we conclude were borne of old by awful
Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games—
Vagrants engaged in practices unlawful,
And orators less sensible than jawful.
So each ten years we add to the long row
A name, the most unworthy that we know.”
With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated;
And in restoring it we found a stone
Set here and there in the dilapidated
And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated
Big characters, with certain uncouth names,
Which we conclude were borne of old by awful
Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games—
Vagrants engaged in practices unlawful,
And orators less sensible than jawful.
So each ten years we add to the long row
A name, the most unworthy that we know.”
“But why,” I asked, “put mine in?” He replied.
“You look it”—and the judgment pained me greatly;
Right gladly would I then and there have died,
But that I'd risen from the grave so lately.
But on examining that solemn, stately
Old ruin I remarked: “My friends, you err—
The truth of this is just what I expected.
This building in its time made quite a stir.
I lived (was famous, too) when 'twas erected.
The names here first inscribed were much respected.
This is the Hall of Fame, or I'm a stork,
And this goat-pasture once was called New York.”
“You look it”—and the judgment pained me greatly;
Right gladly would I then and there have died,
But that I'd risen from the grave so lately.
But on examining that solemn, stately
Old ruin I remarked: “My friends, you err—
The truth of this is just what I expected.
This building in its time made quite a stir.
I lived (was famous, too) when 'twas erected.
The names here first inscribed were much respected.
This is the Hall of Fame, or I'm a stork,
And this goat-pasture once was called New York.”
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |