The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862

In the ground
Was the image found;
Of the ground
Was it molded round;
And empty of breath,
And still as in death,
Inside not a ray,
Outside only clay,
Deaf and dumb and blind,
Deadest of the kind,
There it lay.

Unto what was it like? In its shape it was what?
The world says 'a man,'—but the world is mistaken.
To revive the old story, a long time forgot,
'Twasn't man that was made, but a pot that was baken.

And what if it was human-faced like the Sphinx?
There's no riddle to solve, whate'er the world thinks:
The fiat that made it, from its heels to its hair,
Wasn't simply 'Be man!' but 'Stand up and Be Ware!'

And straightway acknowledging its true kith and kin
With that host of things known to be hollow within,
It took up a stand with its handles akimbo,
Bowels and bosom in a cavernous limbo.

Curving out at the bottom, it swelled to a jig;
Curving in at the top, narrow-necked, to the mug;
Two sockets for sunshine in the frontispiece placed,
A crack just below—merely a matter of taste;
A flap on each side hiding holes of resounding,
For conveyance within of noises surrounding;

And a nozzle before,
All befitted to snore,
Was a part of the ware
For adornment and air.

Now for what was this slender and curious mold?
Had it no purpose? Had it nothing to hold?
A world full of meaning, my friend, if 'twere told.
You remember those jars in the Arabian Night,
As they stood 'neath the stars in Al' Baba's eyesight:
Little dreamed Ali Baba what ajar could excite—
For how much did betide
When a man was inside!
When from under each cover a man was to spring,
Where then was the empty, insignificant thing?
It was so with this jar,
'Twasn't hollow by far;
Breathless at first as an exhausted receiver,
When the air was let in, lo! man, the achiever!

But an accident happened, a cruel surprise;
How frail proved the man, and how very unwise!
As if plaster of Paris, and not Paradise,
No more of clay consecrate,
He broke up disconsolate,
Pot-luck for his fortune, though the world's potentate.

It brings to our memory that Indian camp,
Where men lay in ambush, every one with a lamp,
Each light darkly hid in a vessel of clay,
Till the sword should be drawn, and then on came the fray.
'Twas so in the fortunes of this queer earthen race,
(It happened before they were more than a brace).
The fact of a fall
Did break upon all!
The lamp of each life being uncovered by sin,
The pitcher was broken, and the devil pitched in!

So much for his story to the moment he erred,
From what dignified pot he became a pot-sherd.
Since that day the great world,
Like a wheel having twirled,
Hath replenished the earth from the primitive pair,
And turned into being every species of ware.

There are millions and millions on the planet to-day,
Of all sorts, and all sizes, all ranks we may say;
There's a rabble of pots, with the dregs and the scum,
And a peerage of pots, above finger and thumb.

Look round in this pottery, look down to the ground,
Where bottle and mug, jug and pottle abound;
From the plebeian throng see the graded array;
There is shelf above shelf of brittle display,
As rank above rank the poor mortals arise,
From menial purpose to princely disguise.

See vessels of honor, emblazoned with cash,
Of standing uncertain, preparing to dash.
See some to dishonor, in common clay-bake,
Figure high where the fire and the flint do partake.

There's the bottle of earth by glittering glass,
As by blood of the gentlest excelling its class,
Becoming instanter
A portly decanter!