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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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UPON the road of my life,
Passed me many fair creatures,
Clothed all in white, and radiant;
To one, finally, I made speech:
“Who art thou?”
But she, like the others,
Kept cowled her face,
And answered in haste, anxiously,
“I am Good Deed, forsooth;
You have often seen me.”
“Not uncowled,” I made reply.
And with rash and strong hand,
Though she resisted,
I drew away the veil,
And gazed at the features of Vanity.
She, shamefaced, went on;
And after I had mused a time,
I said of myself, “Fool!”
Stephen Crane.
FROM THE HOUSE OF A HUNDRED LIGHTS
WHAT! doubt the Master Workman’s hand
Because my fleshly ills increase?
No; for there still remains one chance
That I am not His masterpiece.
Out of all Epicurus’ train
I wonder which class is sincerest,
The drones, or workers, who believe
This doctrine of “Believe-the-Nearest.”
You invalids who cannot drink
Much wine or love, I say to you,
“Content yourselves with laughing at
The antics of the fools who do.”
Bad-liver says each morning’s sun
Is but to him a juggling bawd,
That opens up for man’s deceit
Only another chest of fraud.
Old Ash-in-Blood still deals advice
To Rose-of-Youth, and as he deals it,
Rolls piously his eyes; but ah,
He knows the pain whose body feels it.
In youth my head was hollow, like
A gourd, not knowing good from ill;
Now, though ’tis long since then, I’m like
A reed – wind-shaken, hollow still.
Said one young foolish mouth with words
As many as the desert sands,
“My grandfather took daily baths
In rose-water; just smell my hands!”
And now young poets will arise
And burst earth’s fetters link by link,
And mount the skies of poesy,
And daub Time’s helpless wings with ink!
In youth I wrote a song so great,
I thought that, like a flaring taper,
’Twould shine abroad; and so it did,
To the four corners of the – paper.
And, poet, should you think your songs
Must, or even will, be read,
Bethink thee, friend, what fine springs rise
Impotently from the sea’s bed.
I marvelled at the speaker’s tongue,
And marvelled more as he unrolled it.
How strange a thing it was, and yet
How much more strange if he could hold it!
A little judge once said to me,
“Behold, my friend, I caused these laws!”
But I knew One who, strange to say,
Had been the Causer of this Cause.
See fathoms deep, midst gold and gems,
Life sits and weeps on ocean’s floor;
But though on land no treasure is,
Life laughs and stands. I’ll stay on shore.
This mess of cracked ice, stones and bread,
Of sweetness savours not a bit,
And yet, my friends, I’m satisfied,
For lo! I – I – invented it!
Frederic Ridgely Torrence.
THE BRITISH VISITOR
ARRIV’D, at last, Niagara to scan,
He walks erect and feels himself a man;
Surveys the cataract with a “critic’s eye,”
Resolv’d to pass no “imperfections by” —
Passed me many fair creatures,
Clothed all in white, and radiant;
To one, finally, I made speech:
“Who art thou?”
But she, like the others,
Kept cowled her face,
And answered in haste, anxiously,
“I am Good Deed, forsooth;
You have often seen me.”
“Not uncowled,” I made reply.
And with rash and strong hand,
Though she resisted,
I drew away the veil,
And gazed at the features of Vanity.
She, shamefaced, went on;
And after I had mused a time,
I said of myself, “Fool!”
Stephen Crane.
FROM THE HOUSE OF A HUNDRED LIGHTS
WHAT! doubt the Master Workman’s hand
Because my fleshly ills increase?
No; for there still remains one chance
That I am not His masterpiece.
Out of all Epicurus’ train
I wonder which class is sincerest,
The drones, or workers, who believe
This doctrine of “Believe-the-Nearest.”
You invalids who cannot drink
Much wine or love, I say to you,
“Content yourselves with laughing at
The antics of the fools who do.”
Bad-liver says each morning’s sun
Is but to him a juggling bawd,
That opens up for man’s deceit
Only another chest of fraud.
Old Ash-in-Blood still deals advice
To Rose-of-Youth, and as he deals it,
Rolls piously his eyes; but ah,
He knows the pain whose body feels it.
In youth my head was hollow, like
A gourd, not knowing good from ill;
Now, though ’tis long since then, I’m like
A reed – wind-shaken, hollow still.
Said one young foolish mouth with words
As many as the desert sands,
“My grandfather took daily baths
In rose-water; just smell my hands!”
And now young poets will arise
And burst earth’s fetters link by link,
And mount the skies of poesy,
And daub Time’s helpless wings with ink!
In youth I wrote a song so great,
I thought that, like a flaring taper,
’Twould shine abroad; and so it did,
To the four corners of the – paper.
And, poet, should you think your songs
Must, or even will, be read,
Bethink thee, friend, what fine springs rise
Impotently from the sea’s bed.
I marvelled at the speaker’s tongue,
And marvelled more as he unrolled it.
How strange a thing it was, and yet
How much more strange if he could hold it!
A little judge once said to me,
“Behold, my friend, I caused these laws!”
But I knew One who, strange to say,
Had been the Causer of this Cause.
See fathoms deep, midst gold and gems,
Life sits and weeps on ocean’s floor;
But though on land no treasure is,
Life laughs and stands. I’ll stay on shore.
This mess of cracked ice, stones and bread,
Of sweetness savours not a bit,
And yet, my friends, I’m satisfied,
For lo! I – I – invented it!
Frederic Ridgely Torrence.
THE BRITISH VISITOR
ARRIV’D, at last, Niagara to scan,
He walks erect and feels himself a man;
Surveys the cataract with a “critic’s eye,”
Resolv’d to pass no “imperfections by” —
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
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Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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