Black Beetles in Amber

Nay, Peter Robertson, 'tis not for you

To blubber o'er Max Taubles for he's dead.

By Heaven! my hearty, if you only knew

How better is a grave-worm in the head

Than brains like yours—how far more decent, too,

A tomb in far Corea than a bed

Where Peter lies with Peter, you would covet

His happier state and, dying, learn to love it.

In the recesses of the silent tomb

No Maunderings of yours disturb the peace.

Your mental bag-pipe, droning like the gloom

Of Hades audible, perforce must cease

From troubling further; and that crack o' doom,

Your mouth, shaped like a long bow, shall release

In vain such shafts of wit as it can utter—

The ear of death can't even hear them flutter.