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DIAGNOSIS

 
You have a grudge against the man
Who did the thing you couldn't do.
You hatched the scheme, you laid the plan,
And yet you couldn't push it through.
You strained your soul and couldn't win;
He gave a breath and it was easy.
You smile and swallow your chagrin,
But, oh, the swallow makes you queasy.
 
 
I know your illness, for, you see,
The diet never pleases me.
 
 
Your dearest friend has made a strike,
Has placed his mark above the crowd,
Has won the thing which you would like
And you are glad for him, and proud.
Your tongue is swift, your cheek is red,
If some one speak to his detraction,
And yet, the fact the thing is said
Affords you half a satisfaction.
 
 
I see the workings of your mind
Because my own is so inclined.
 
 
You tell me fame is hollow squeak,
You say that wealth is carking care;
And to live care-free a single week
Is more than years of work and wear.
Alexander weeps his highest place,
Diogenes is happy sunning!
What matters it who wins the race
So you have had the joy of running?
 
 
And yet, you covet prize and pelf.
I know it, for I do, myself.
 

SPREAD OUT

 
In politics I'm a – never mind,
And you are a – I don't care,
But, anyway, I am rather inclined
To suspect we are both unfair;
For I have called you a coward and slave
And you have dubbed me a fool and knave.
 
 
(Yet, perhaps I was right, for you surely abused
The right of free speech in the names you used!)
 
 
In business you figure – a profit, I guess,
And I charge you – as much as I dare,
And I grumble that you ought to do it for less,
And you ask if my price is fair.
But if I sold your goods and you sold mine,
I doubt if the prices would much decline.
 
 
(Though I must insist that I think I see
Where you'd still have a little advantage of me!)
 
 
In religion you are a – who cares what?
And I am a – what's the odds?
So why have I sneered at your holiest thought,
And why have you jeered at my gods?
For, thinking it over, I'm sure we two
Were doing the best that we honestly knew.
 
 
(Though, of course, I cannot escape a touch
Of suspicion that you never knew too much!)
 

THE DILETTANT

 
To lie outright in the light of day
I'm not sufficiently skilful,
But I practice a bit, in an amateur way,
The lie which is hardly wilful;
The society lie and the business lie
And the lie I have had to double,
And the lie that I lie when I don't know why
And the truth is too much trouble.
 
 
For this I am willing to take your blame
Unless you have sometimes done the same.
 
 
To be a fool of an A1 brand
I'm not sufficiently clever,
But I often have tried my 'prentice hand
In a callow and crude endeavor;
A fool with the money for which I've toiled,
A fool with the word I've spoken,
And the foolish fool who is fooled and foiled
On a maiden's finger broken.
 
 
If you never yourself have made a slip,
I'm willing to watch you curl your lip.
 
 
And yet my blood and my bone resist
If you dub me fool and liar.
I set my teeth and double my fist
And my brow is flushed with fire.
 
 
You I deny and you I defy
And I vow I will make you rue it;
And I lie when I say that I never lie,
Which proves me a fool to do it!
 
 
You may jerk your thumb at me and grin
If liar and fool you never have been.
 

THE CONSERVATIVE

 
At twenty, as you proudly stood
And read your thesis, "Brotherhood,"
If I remember right, you saw
The fatuous faults of social law.
 
 
At twenty-five you braved the storm
And dug the trenches of Reform,
Stung by some gadfly in your breast
Which would not let your spirit rest.
 
 
At thirty-five you made a pause
To sum the columns of The Cause;
You noted, with unwilling eye,
The heedless world had passed you by.
 
 
At forty you had always known
Man owes a duty to His Own.
Man's life is as man's life is made;
The game is fair, if fairly played.
 
 
At fifty, after years of stress
You bore the banner of Success.
All men have virtues, all have sins,
And God is with the man who wins.
 
 
At sixty, from your captured heights
You fly the flag of Vested Rights,
Bounded by bonds collectable,
And hopelessly respectable!
 

HUSH

 
What's the best thing that you ever have done?
The whitest day,
The cleverest play
That ever you set in the shine of the sun?
The time that you felt just a wee bit proud
Of defying the cry of the cowardly crowd
And stood back to back with God?
Aye, I notice you nod,
But silence yourself, lest you bring me shame
That I have no answering deed to name.
 
 
What's the worst thing that ever you did?
The darkest spot,
The blackest blot
On the page you have pasted together and hid?
Ah, sometimes you think you've forgotten it quite,
Till it crawls in your bed in the dead of the night
And brands you its own with a blush.
What was it? Nay, hush!
Don't tell it to me, for fear it be known
That I have an answering blush of my own.
 
 
But whenever you notice a clean hit made,
Sing high and clear
The sounding cheer
You would gladly have heard for the play you played,
And when a man walks in the way forbidden,
Think you of the thing you have happily hidden
And spare him the sting of your tongue.
Do I do that which I've sung?
Well, it may be I don't and it may be I do,
But I'm telling the thing which is good for you!
 

THE ISLAND

 
You, my friend, in your long-tailed coat,
With your white cravat at your withered throat,
Praying by proxy of him you hire,
Worshiping God with a quartet choir,
Bumping your head on the pew in front,
Assenting "Amen!" with an unctuous grunt,
Are you sure it is you
In the pew?
 
 
Look!
You're away on a lonely isle,
Where the scant breech-clout is the only style,
Where the day of the week forgets its name,
Where god and devil are all the same.
Look at yourself in your careless clout,
And tell me, then, would you be devout?
 
 
One on the island, one in the pew —
How do you know which is you?
 
 
You, dear maiden, with eyes askance
At the little soubrette and her daring dance,
Thanking God that His ways are wide
To allow you to pass on the other side,
You, as you ask, "Will the world approve?"
At the hint of a wabble out of the groove,
 
 
Look!
On that isle of the lonely sea
Are you, the saucy soubrette and he.
And the little grooves that you circle in
Are forever as though they never had been.
Now you are naked of soul and limb:
Will you say what you will not dare – for him?
 
 
Which of the women is real?
The one you appear, or the one you feel?
You, good sir, with your neck a-stretch,
As the van goes by with the prison wretch,
Asking naught of his ills or hurts,
Judging "he's getting his just deserts,"
Pluming yourself that the moral laws
Are centred in you as effect and cause.
 
 
Look!
At the island, and there you are
With the long, strong arm which reaches far,
And there are the natives who kneel and bow,
And where are your meum et tuum now?
Are you sure that the balance swings quite true?
Or does it a little incline to you?
 
 
Answer or not as you will, but oh,
I have an island, too, and so
I know, I know.
 

HUMBLER HEROES

 
It might not be so difficult to lead the light brigade,
While the army cheered behind you, and the fifes and bugles played;
It might be rather easy, with the war-shriek in your ears,
To forget the bite of bullets and the taste of blood and tears.
But to be a scrubwoman, with four
Babies, or more,
Every day, every day setting your back
On the rack,
And all your reward forever not quite
A full bite
Of bread for your babies. Say!
In the heat of the day
You might be a hero to head a brigade,
But a hero like her? I'm afraid! I'm afraid!
 
 
It might be very feasible to force a great reform,
To saddle public passion and to ride upon the storm;
It might be somewhat simple to ignore the roar of wrath,
Because a second shout broke out to cheer you on your path.
But he who, alone and unknown, is true
To his view,
Unswerved by the crush of the mutton-browed,
Blatting crowd,
Unwon by the flabby-brained, blinking ease
Which he sees
Throned and anointed. Say!
At the height of the fray,
You might be the chosen to captain the throng:
But to stand all alone? How long? How long?
 

CONSCIENCE PIANISSIMO

 
You are honest as daylight. You're often assured
That your word is as good as your note – unsecured.
We could trust you with millions unaudited, but —
(Tut, tut!
There is always a "but,"
So don't get excited,) I'm pained to perceive
It is seldom I notice you grumble or grieve
When the custom-house officer pockets your tip
And passes the contraband goods in your grip.
You would scorn to be shy on your ante, I'm certain,
But skinning your Uncle you're rather expert in.
 
 
Well, I'm proud that no taint of the sort touches me.
(For I've never been over the water, you see.)
 
 
Your yardstick's a yard and your goods are all wool;
Your bushel's four pecks and you measure it full.
You are proud of your business integrity, yet —
(Don't fret!
There is always a "yet,")
I never have noticed a sign of distress, or
Disturbance in you, when the upright assessor
Has listed your property somewhere about
Half what you would take were you selling it out.
You're as true to the world as the world to its axis,
But you chuckle to swear off your personal taxes.
As for me, I would scorn to do any such thing,
(Though I may have considered the question last spring.)
 
 
You have notions of right. You would count it a sin
To cheat a blind billionaire out of a pin.
You have a contempt for a pettiness, still —
(Don't chill!
There is always a "still,")
I never have noticed you storm with neglect
Because the conductor had failed to collect,
Or growl that the game wasn't run on the square
When your boy in the high school paid only half fare.
The voice of your conscience is lusty and audible,
But a railroad – good heavens! why, that's only laudable.
 
 
Of course, I am quite in a different class;
For me, it is painful to ride on a pass!