POEMS OF MANHATTAN
What's bred in the bone will breed, you know;
Clowns and their trainers, high and low,
Will cut such capers, long as they dare,
While honest Poverty says its prayer.
But tell me what prayer or fast can save
Some hoary candidate for the grave,
The market's wrinkled Giant Despair,
Muttering, brooding, scheming there,—
Founding a college or building a church
Lest Heaven should leave him in the lurch!
Better come out in the rival way,
Issue your scrip in open day,
And pour your wealth in the grimy fist
Of some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist;
Leave toil and poverty where they lie,
Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by,
Your pot-house fag from his counters bring
And make him into a Railway King!
Between such Gentiles and such Jews
Little enough one finds to choose:
Either the other will buy and use,
Eat the meat and throw him the bone,
And leave him to stand the brunt alone.
—Let the tempest come, that's gathering near,
And give us a better atmosphere!
THE OLD PICTURE-DEALER
The second landing-place. Above,
Sun-pictures for a shilling each.
Below, a haunt that Teutons love,—
Beer, smoke, and pretzels all in reach,
Between the two, a mouldy nook
Where loungers hunt for things of worth—
Engraving, curio, or book—
Here drifted from all over Earth.
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