Black Beetles in Amber

Back further than

I know, in San

Francisco dwelt a wealthy man.

So rich was he

That none could be

Wise, good and great in like degree.

'Tis true he wrought,

In deed or thought,

But few of all the things he ought;

But men said: "Who

Would wish him to?

Great souls are born to be, not do!"

One thing, indeed,

He did, we read,

Which was becoming, all agreed:

Grown provident,

Ere life was spent

He built a mighty monument.

For longer than

I know, in San

Francisco lived a beggar man;

And when in bed

They found him dead—

"Just like the scamp!" the people said.

He died, they say,

On the same day

His wealthy neighbor passed away.

What matters it

When beggars quit

Their beats? I answer: Not a bit.

They got a spade

And pick and made

A hole, and there the chap was laid.

"He asked for bread,"

'Twas neatly said:

"He'll get not even a stone instead."

The years rolled round:

His humble mound

Sank to the level of the ground;

And men forgot

That the bare spot

Was like (and was) the beggar's lot.

Forgotten, too,

Was t'other, who

Had reared the monument to woo

Inconstant Fame,

Though still his name

Shouted in granite just the same.

That name, I swear,

They both did bear

The beggar and the millionaire.

That lofty tomb,

Then, honored—whom?

For argument here's ample room.

I'll not debate,

But only state

The scamp first claimed it at the Gate.

St. Peter, proud

To serve him, bowed

And showed him to the softest cloud.