Black Beetles in Amber

High Lord of Liars, Pickering, to thee

Let meaner mortals bend the subject knee!

Thine is mendacity's imperial crown,

Alike by genius, action and renown.

No man, since words could set a cheek aflame

E'er lied so greatly with so little shame!

O bad old man, must thy remaining years

Be passed in leading idiots by their ears—

Thine own (which Justice, if she ruled the roast

Would fasten to the penitential post)

Still wagging sympathetically—hung

the same rocking-bar that bears thy tongue?

Thou dog of darkness, dost thou hope to stay

Time's dread advance till thou hast had thy day?

Dost think the Strangler will release his hold

Because, forsooth, some fibs remain untold?

No, no—beneath thy multiplying load

Of years thou canst not tarry on the road

To dabble in the blood thy leaden feet

Have pressed from bosoms that have ceased to beat

Of reputations margining thy way,

Nor wander from the path new truth to slay.

Tell to thyself whatever lies thou wilt,

Catch as thou canst at pennies got by guilt—

Straight down to death this blessed year thou'lt sink,

Thy life washed out as with a wave of ink.

But if this prophecy be not fulfilled,

And thou who killest patience be not killed;

If age assail in vain and vice attack

Only by folly to be beaten back;

Yet Nature can this consolation give:

The rogues who die not are condemned to live!