 | The Triangular Society |  |
283
AFTERGLOW.
To one abstruse conundrum much serious thought I give—
Why is it that the good men die, and all the bad ones live?
Or why is it we never know our neighbor's rare perfections
Till his last will and testament is read to his connections?
Why is it that the good men die, and all the bad ones live?
Or why is it we never know our neighbor's rare perfections
Till his last will and testament is read to his connections?
Ah, then the daily papers spread his virtues all abroad:
They say he was “an honest man—the noblest work of God;”
How good he was, how wise he was, how honest in his dealing—
What tenderness of heart he had, and what a depth of feeling!
They say he was “an honest man—the noblest work of God;”
How good he was, how wise he was, how honest in his dealing—
What tenderness of heart he had, and what a depth of feeling!
Perhaps the man was one of those—ah, would that they were fewer!
Who all his life ground hard and close the faces of the poor;
Who drove his debtors to despair by premature foreclosure,
Then paid his pew-rent in advance, with infinite composure.
Who all his life ground hard and close the faces of the poor;
Who drove his debtors to despair by premature foreclosure,
Then paid his pew-rent in advance, with infinite composure.
Perhaps he was the lordly “head” of some unhappy place
Called “home” by use and courtesy, but lacking all its grace;
Who held his children criminals for every trifling error,
Who pinched his household half to death, and kept his wife in terror.
Called “home” by use and courtesy, but lacking all its grace;
Who held his children criminals for every trifling error,
Who pinched his household half to death, and kept his wife in terror.
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Perhaps he was a lawyer deep, whose quibbling tricks and words
Helped base executors to rob poor widows of their thirds;
Perhaps a thrifty grocer-man, whose wheedling, false palaver
Sold toughest steak for porter-house, and chicory for Java.
Helped base executors to rob poor widows of their thirds;
Perhaps a thrifty grocer-man, whose wheedling, false palaver
Sold toughest steak for porter-house, and chicory for Java.
Perhaps he was a husband who, through all his married life,
Regarded honor, faith and truth as duties—of his wife—
And strove his sidewise discipline beyond the grave to carry,
By threats to leave her penniless if she should dare remarry.
Regarded honor, faith and truth as duties—of his wife—
And strove his sidewise discipline beyond the grave to carry,
By threats to leave her penniless if she should dare remarry.
Any of these he might have been—the types are nowise rare—
But when he dies, behold, we passed an angel unaware!
Since type and tongue proclaim his worth, what cynic shall dispute them?
“Many there be who meet the gods,” we read, “but few salute them!”
But when he dies, behold, we passed an angel unaware!
Since type and tongue proclaim his worth, what cynic shall dispute them?
“Many there be who meet the gods,” we read, “but few salute them!”
Why don't the papers say fine things of men before they die,
And indicate these saintly souls ere yet they soar on high?
Then we might recognize them ere grim death and “cold obstruction”
Have made it quite impossible to get an introduction.
And indicate these saintly souls ere yet they soar on high?
Then we might recognize them ere grim death and “cold obstruction”
Have made it quite impossible to get an introduction.
Ah, well—perhaps when I at last beneath my burden faint,
I, too, shall win the title of a paragon and saint,
And be, when death's cold breath has blown aside life's dust and soiling,
A grain of that superior salt which keeps the world from spoiling!
I, too, shall win the title of a paragon and saint,
And be, when death's cold breath has blown aside life's dust and soiling,
A grain of that superior salt which keeps the world from spoiling!
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