434
KNICKERBOCKER GALLERY.
Men's passions on to crime; till, axle-deep
In human gore, they drive the conqueror's car,
And call it Glory! Can the monster sleep?
Mads be not, as hot waves of blood his couch o'erleap?
In human gore, they drive the conqueror's car,
And call it Glory! Can the monster sleep?
Mads be not, as hot waves of blood his couch o'erleap?
Still guiltier, baser, see the Duel ape
The strife of realms! With ceremony don
His friends—his friends!—the formal folly shape,
And give it murder's form and murder's hue:
They please it honor! Honor never knew
The idiot crime; but, wise and pure and brave,
Is ever unto God and duty true:
'Tis Fashion's law—the breath of sot and knave;[1]
Fashion, the fool's God, frowns; he dies, its coward slave!
The strife of realms! With ceremony don
His friends—his friends!—the formal folly shape,
And give it murder's form and murder's hue:
They please it honor! Honor never knew
The idiot crime; but, wise and pure and brave,
Is ever unto God and duty true:
'Tis Fashion's law—the breath of sot and knave;[1]
Fashion, the fool's God, frowns; he dies, its coward slave!
'T is guiltiest, for Self-murder adda its guilt;
And Time and Thought and Sleep against it plead;
The gentle sleep who dreams, ere blood in spilt,
Hear angels whisper, Dare not do this deed!
For 't is not Passion bids the victim bleed;
And of the murderer slays when loth to kill.
Not erring Nature, Hate, nor Rage, nor Need,
His wretched plea: he goes, in conscious ill,
Defying God and man, a felon's grave to fill.
And Time and Thought and Sleep against it plead;
The gentle sleep who dreams, ere blood in spilt,
Hear angels whisper, Dare not do this deed!
For 't is not Passion bids the victim bleed;
And of the murderer slays when loth to kill.
Not erring Nature, Hate, nor Rage, nor Need,
His wretched plea: he goes, in conscious ill,
Defying God and man, a felon's grave to fill.
'T is basest, for not willingly he goes
That whipped and trembling thrall of sordid fear;
(Save when the dark life-gamester deftly throws
The loaded dice of death; whose life's a sneer,
Whose wine is blood, whose banquet-board the bier;
The licensed bravo, with his heart of late,
And eye of snake, who kills with jocund jeer,
And lives to kill; lends on his triumphs wait,
And own, abashed, their lord and master, not their mate!)
That whipped and trembling thrall of sordid fear;
(Save when the dark life-gamester deftly throws
The loaded dice of death; whose life's a sneer,
Whose wine is blood, whose banquet-board the bier;
The licensed bravo, with his heart of late,
And eye of snake, who kills with jocund jeer,
And lives to kill; lends on his triumphs wait,
And own, abashed, their lord and master, not their mate!)
'T is basest, for not willingly he goes,
But lashed by fears that wisdoms would deride;
Not fears of life nor law, of friends nor foes,
Of conscience outraged, nor of virtuous pride.
But lashed by fears that wisdoms would deride;
Not fears of life nor law, of friends nor foes,
Of conscience outraged, nor of virtuous pride.
