The Last Man by Ambrose Bierce — Past Poetry archive

I dreamed that Gabriel took his horn On Resurrection’s fateful morn, And lighting upon Laurel Hill Blew long, blew loud, blew high and shrill. The houses compassing the ground Rattled their windows at the sound. But no one rose. “Alas!” said he, “What lazy bones these mortals be!” Again he plied the horn, again Deflating both his lungs in vain; Then stood astonished and chagrined At raising nothing but the wind. At last he caught the tranquil eye Of an observer standing by⁠— Last of mankind, not doomed to die. To him thus Gabriel: “Sir, I pray This mystery you’ll clear away. Why do I sound my note in vain? Why spring they not from out the plain? Where’s Luning, Blythe and Michael Reese, Magee, who ran the Golden Fleece ? Where’s Asa Fisk? Jim Phelan, who Was thought to know a thing or two Of land which rose but never sank? Where’s Con O’Conor of the Bank, And all who consecrated lands Of old by laying on of hands? I ask of them because their worth Was known in all they wished⁠—the earth. Brisk boomers once, alert and wise, Why don’t they rise, why don’t they rise?” The man replied: “Reburied long With others of the shrouded throng In San Mateo⁠—carted there And dumped promiscuous, anywhere, In holes and trenches⁠—all misfits⁠— Mixed up with one another’s bits: One’s back-bone with another’s shin, A third one’s skull with a fourth one’s grin⁠— Your eye was never, never fixed Upon a company so mixed! Go now among them there and blow: ’Twill be as good as any show To see them, when they hear the tones, Compiling one another’s bones! But here ’tis vain to sound and wait: Naught rises here but real estate. I own it all and shan’t disgorge. Don’t know me? I am Henry George.”