By Ambrose Bierce (1842 - 1914?)

Another Way

I LAY in silence, dead. A woman came     And laid a rose upon my breast, and said, “May God be merciful.” She spoke my name,     And added, “It is strange to think him dead.   “He loved me well enough, but ’t was his way     To speak it lightly.” Then, beneath her breath: “Besides”—I knew what further she would say,     But then a footfall broke my dream of death.   To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose     Upon her breast, and speak her name, and deem It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows     I had more pleasure in the other dream.

Creation

GOD dreamed—the suns sprang flaming into place, And sailing worlds with many a venturous race. He woke—His smile alone illumined space.

Montefiore

I SAW—’t was in a dream, the other night— A man whose hair with age was thin and white;   One hundred years had bettered by his birth, And still his step was firm, his eye was bright.   Before him and about him pressed a crowd. Each head in reverence was bared and bowed,   And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues Extolled his deeds and spake his fame aloud.   I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, “Montefiore!” with the rest, and vied   In efforts to caress the hand that ne’er To want and worth had charity denied.   So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan He scarce could breathe, and, taking from a pan   A gleaming coin, he tossed it o’er our heads, And in a moment was a lonely man!

Presentiment

WITH saintly grace and reverent tread     She walked among the graves with me;     Her every footfall seemed to be A benediction on the dead.   The guardian spirit of the place     She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn,     Surprised by the untimely morn She made with her resplendent face.   Moved by some waywardness of will,     Three paces from the path apart     She stepped and stood—my prescient heart Was stricken with a passing chill.   My child-lore of the years agone     Remembering, I smiled and thought,     “Who shudders suddenly at naught, His grave is being trod upon.”   But now I know that it was more     Than idle fancy. O, my sweet,     I did not know such little feet Could make a buried heart so sore!

T. A. H.

YES, he was that, or that, as you prefer,— Did so and so, though, faith, it was n’t all; Lived like a fool, or a philosopher, And had whatever’s needful to a fall. As rough inflections on a planet merge In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, So in the survey of his worth the small Asperities of spirit disappear, Lost in the grander curves of character. He lately was hit hard; none knew but I The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke,— Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, But set his teeth and made a revelry; Drank like a devil,—staining sometimes red The goblet ’s edge; diced with his conscience; spread, Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke His welcome in a tongue so long forgot That even his ancient guest remembered not What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend, Still conjugating with each failing sense The verb “to die” in every mood and tense, Pursued his awful humor to the end. When, like a stormy dawn, the crimson broke From his white lips, he smiled and mutely bled, And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.

The Bride

“YOU know, my friends, with what a brave carouse I made a second marriage in my house,—   Divorced old barren Reason from my bed And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse.”   So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam Of light that made her like an angel seem,   The Daughter of the Vine said: “I myself Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream.”

The Death of Grant

FATHER! whose hard and cruel law     Is part of thy compassion’s plan,     Thy works presumptuously we scan For what the prophets say they saw.   Unbidden still, the awful slope     Walling us in, we climb to gain     Assurance of the shining plain That faith has certified to hope.   In vain: beyond the circling hill     The shadow and the cloud abide;     Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide To trust the Record and be still;   To trust it loyally as he     Who, heedful of his high design,     Ne’er raised a seeking eye to thine, But wrought thy will unconsciously,   Disputing not of chance or fate,     Nor questioning of cause or creed:     For anything but duty’s deed Too simply wise, too humbly great.   The cannon syllabled his name;     His shadow shifted o’er the land,     Portentous, as at his command Successive cities sprang to flame!   He fringed the continent with fire,     The rivers ran in lines of light!     Thy will be done on earth—if right Or wrong he cared not to inquire.   His was the heavy hand, and his     The service of the despot blade;     His the soft answer that allayed War’s giant animosities.   Let us have peace: our clouded eyes     Fill, Father, with another light,     That we may see with clearer sight Thy servant’s soul in Paradise.

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