L’audace by Ambrose Bierce — Past Poetry archive

Daughter of God! Audacity divine⁠— Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign⁠— Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool, Not thine of idiots the vocal drool: Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass, Presumption, actuates the charging ass. Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings; The notes should mount on pinions true and strong, For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song, Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng! Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails, They (notes, not angels) drop and the hymn fails; The minstrel’s tender fingers and his thumbs Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums. Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand For stronger voices and a harder hand⁠— Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire, And Poet Riley’s fist to slug the rebel wire!