Iii

Ring up the curtain and the play protract! Behold our Sharon in his last mad act. With man long warring, quarreling with God, He crouches now beneath a woman's rod Predestined for his back while yet it lay Closed in an acorn which, one luckless day, He stole, unconscious of its foetal twig, From the scant garner of a sightless pig. With bleeding shoulders pitilessly scored, He bawls more lustily than once he snored. The sympathetic Comstocks droop to hear, And Carson river sheds a viscous tear, Which sturdy tumble-bugs assail amain, With ready thrift, and urge along the plain. The jackass rabbit sorrows as he lopes; The sage-brush glooms along the mountain slopes; In rising clouds the poignant alkali, Tearless itself, makes everybody cry. Washoe canaries on the Geiger Grade Subdue the singing of their cavalcade, And, wiping with their ears the tears unshed, Grieve for their family's unlucky head. Virginia City intermits her trade And well-clad strangers walk her streets unflayed. Nay, all Nevada ceases work to weep And the recording angel goes to sleep. But in his dreams his goose-quill's creaking fount Augments the debits in the long account. And still the continents and oceans ring With royal torments of the Silver King! Incessant bellowings fill all the earth, Mingled with inextinguishable mirth. He roars, men laugh, Nevadans weep, beasts howl, Plash the affrighted fish, and shriek the fowl! With monstrous din their blended thunders rise, Peal upon peal, and brawl along the skies, Startle in hell the Sharons as they groan, And shake the splendors of the great white throne! Still roaring outward through the vast profound, The spreading circles of receding sound Pursue each other in a failing race To the cold confines of eternal space; There break and die along that awful shore Which God's own eyes have never dared explore-- Dark, fearful, formless, nameless evermore!

Look to the west! Against yon steely sky Lone Mountain rears its holy cross on high. About its base the meek-faced dead are laid To share the benediction of its shade. With crossed white hands, shut eyes and formal feet, Their nights are innocent, their days discreet. Sharon, some years, perchance, remain of life-- Of vice and greed, vulgarity and strife; And then--God speed the day if such His will-- You'll lie among the dead you helped to kill, And be in good society at last, Your purse unsilvered and your face unbrassed.