With lifted hands, Lone Mountain’s giant cross
Stands in the sky against the Western splendor!
(A ship beyond is playing pitch-and-toss;
She hugs—ships all are feminine in gender—
The shore, then fickly turns away to find
Another shore to suit her altered mind.)
About the foot of that tall rood are spread
The simple mound and pompous mausoleum—
Three several republics of the dead,
Whose citizens love peace. You’ll never see ’em
Assail a street-car passenger with stones,
Nor brain a woman with their marrow bones.
Not even in Potter’s Field the pauper crew
E’er go on strike to get a fair division
Of monumental fame. (If they but knew,
Their barren paddock is a Field Elysian,
Compared with many an historic place,
Where royal odors leg it into space.)
The dead intimidate no Sandlot Judge,
Nor was it ever their besetting sin to
Scare burly Sheriffs. Faith! I’d not begrudge
That cross the necks if it were fashioned into
A double gibbet, on one arm to bear
A rioter, on t’other one a Mayor.
Long live the dead! Since they prefer to live
Within the law, it is a monstrous pity
That early legislation did not give
Them the authority to rule this city.
Here’s to their health! and may their tribe increase—
Recruited from the Judges and Police.