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Black Beetles in Amber. Ambrose BierceЧитать онлайн книгу.

Black Beetles in Amber - Ambrose Bierce


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influence, my friend, has gathered head—

       To east and west its tides encroaching spread.

       There'll be, on all God's foot-stool, when they meet,

       No clean spot left for God to set His feet.

       Table of Contents

      Strolling at sunset in my native land,

       With fruits and flowers thick on either hand,

       I crossed a Shadow flung athwart my way,

       Emerging on a waste of rock and sand.

       "The apples all are gone from here," I said,

       "The roses perished and their spirits fled.

       I will go back." A voice cried out: "The man

       Is risen who eternally was dead!"

       I turned and saw an angel standing there,

       Newly descended from the heights of air.

       Sweet-eyed compassion filled his face, his hands

       A naked sword and golden trumpet bare.

       "Nay, 'twas not death, the shadow that I crossed,"

       I said. "Its chill was but a touch of frost.

       It made me gasp, but quickly I came through,

       With breath recovered ere it scarce was lost."

       'Twas the same land! Remembered mountains thrust

       Grayed heads asky, and every dragging gust,

       In ashen valleys where my sons had reaped,

       Stirred in familiar river-beds the dust.

       Some heights, where once the traveler was shown

       The youngest and the proudest city known,

       Lifted smooth ridges in the steely light—

       Bleak, desolate acclivities of stone.

       Where I had worshiped at my father's tomb,

       Within a massive temple's awful gloom,

       A jackal slunk along the naked rock,

       Affrighted by some prescience of doom.

       Man's vestiges were nowhere to be found,

       Save one brass mausoleum on a mound

       (I knew it well) spared by the artist Time

       To emphasize the desolation round.

       Into the stagnant sea the sullen sun

       Sank behind bars of crimson, one by one.

       "Eternity's at hand!" I cried aloud.

       "Eternity," the angel said, "is done.

       For man is ages dead in every zone;

       The angels all are dead but I alone;

       The devils, too, are cold enough at last,

       And God lies dead before the great white throne!

       'Tis foreordained that I bestride the shore

       When all are gone (as Gabriel did before,

       When I had throttled the last man alive)

       And swear Eternity shall be no more."

       "O Azrael—O Prince of Death, declare

       Why conquered I the grave?" I cried. "What rare,

       Conspicuous virtues won this boon for me?"

       "You've been revived," he said, "to hear me swear."

       "Then let me creep again beneath the grass,

       And knock thou at yon pompous tomb of brass.

       If ears are what you want, Charles Crocker's there—

       Betwixt the greatest ears, the greatest ass."

       He rapped, and while the hollow echoes rang,

       Out at the door a curst hyena sprang

       And fled! Said Azrael: "His soul's escaped,"

       And closed the brazen portal with a bang.

       Table of Contents

      John Jackson, once a soldier bold,

       Hath still a martial feeling;

       So, when he sees a foe, behold!

       He charges him—with stealing.

       He cares not how much ground to-day

       He gives for men to doubt him;

       He's used to giving ground, they say,

       Who lately fought with—out him.

       When, for the battle to be won,

       His gallantry was needed,

       They say each time a loaded gun

       Went off—so, likewise, he did.

       And when discharged (for war's a sport

       So hot he had to leave it)

       He made a very loud report,

       But no one did believe it.

       Table of Contents

      Goldenson hanged! Well, Heaven forbid

       That I should smile above him:

       Though truth to tell, I never did

       Exactly love him.

       It can't be wrong, though, to rejoice

       That his unpleasing capers

       Are ended. Silent is his voice

       In all the papers.

       No longer he's a show: no more,

       Bear-like, his den he's walking.

       No longer can he hold the floor

       When I'd be talking.

       The laws that govern jails are bad

       If such displays are lawful.

       The fate of the assassin's sad,

       But ours is awful!

       What! shall a wretch condemned to die

       In shame upon the gibbet

       Be set before the public eye

       As an "exhibit"?—

       His looks, his actions noted down,

       His words if light or solemn,

       And all this hawked about the town—

       So much a column?

       The press, of course, will publish news

       However it may get it;

       But blast the sheriff who'll abuse

       His powers to let it!

       Nay, this is not ingratitude;

       I'm no reporter, truly,

       Nor yet an editor. I'm rude

       Because unruly—

       Because I burn with shame and rage

      


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