Shapes of Clay

Fly, heedless stranger, from this spot accurst,

Where rests in Satan an offender first

In point of greatness, as in point of time,

Of new-school rascals who proclaim their crime.

Skilled with a frank loquacity to blab

The dark arcana of each mighty grab,

And famed for lying from his early youth,

He sinned secure behind a veil of truth.

Some lock their lips upon their deeds; some write

A damning record and conceal from sight;

Some, with a lust of speaking, die to quell it.

His way to keep a secret was to tell it.

Here sleeps one of the greatest students

Of jurisprudence.

Nature endowed him with the gift

Of the juristhrift.

All points of law alike he threw

The dice to settle.

Those honest cubes were loaded true

With railway metal.

Thy flesh to earth, thy soul to God,

We gave, O gallant brother;

And o'er thy grave the awkward squad

Fired into one another!

Beneath this monument which rears its head.

A giant note of admiration—dead,

His life extinguished like a taper's flame.

John Ericsson is lying in his fame.

Behold how massive is the lofty shaft;

How fine the product of the sculptor's craft;

The gold how lavishly applied; the great

Man's statue how impressive and sedate!

Think what the cost-was! It would ill become

Our modesty to specify the sum;

Suffice it that a fair per cent, we're giving

Of what we robbed him of when he was living.

Of Corporal Tanner the head and the trunk

Are here in unconsecrate ground duly sunk.

His legs in the South claim the patriot's tear,

But, stranger, you needn't be blubbering here.

Jay Gould lies here. When he was newly dead

He looked so natural that round his bed

The people stood, in silence all, to weep.

They thought, poor souls! that he did only sleep.

Here Ingalls, sorrowing, has laid

The tools of his infernal trade—

His pen and tongue. So sharp and rude

They grew—so slack in gratitude,

His hand was wounded as he wrote,

And when he spoke he cut his throat.

Within this humble mausoleum

Poor Guiteau's flesh you'll find.

His bones are kept in a museum,

And Tillman has his mind.

Stranger, uncover; here you have in view

The monument of Chauncey M. Depew.

Eater and orator, the whole world round

For feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned.

Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech,

Nothing he knew excepting how to teach.

But in default of something to impart

He multiplied his words with all his heart:

When least he had to say, instructive most—

A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost.

Dining his way to eminence, he rowed

With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed

From lakes of favor—pulled with all his force

And found each river sweeter than the source.

Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor,

Gnawing and rising till obscure no more,

He ate his way to eminence, and Fame

Inscribes in gravy his immortal name.

A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly,

So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly.

Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him,

And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him.

Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie;

Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why.

In '71 he filled the public eye,

In '72 he bade the world good-bye,

In God's good time, with a protesting sigh,

He came to life just long enough to die.

Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay,

Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray.

He joined the great Order and studied with zeal

The awful arcana he meant to reveal.

At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell—

There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell.