Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil) There’s such a thing as a Personal Devil, It would seem that his Highness here got hold, For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold! Whether bull or bear, it wouldn’t much matter Should Israel Freyer keep up his clatter On earth or under it (as, they say, He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day, When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for’t, Shall bid him keep silence in that Court! But it matters most, as it seems to me, That my countrymen, great and strong and free, So marvel at fellows who seem to win, That if even a Clown can only begin By stealing a railroad, and use its purse For cornering stocks and gold, or—worse— For buying a Judge and Legislature, And sinking still lower poor human nature, The gaping public, whatever befall, Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all! While our rich men drivel and stand amazed At the dust and pother his gang have raised, And make us remember a nursery tale Of the four-and-twenty who feared one snail. 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! CUBA. Is it naught? Is it naught That the South-wind brings her wail to our shore, That the spoilers compass our desolate sister? Is it naught? Must we say to her, “Strive no more.” With the lips wherewith we loved her and kissed her? With the mocking lips wherewith we said, “Thou art the dearest and fairest to us Of all the daughters the sea hath bred, Of all green-girdled isles that woo us!” Is it naught? Must ye wait? Must ye wait. Till they ravage her gardens of orange and palm, Till her heart is dust, till her strength is water? Must ye see them trample her, and be calm As priests when a virgin is led to slaughter? Shall they smite the marvel of all lands,— The nation’s longing, the Earth’s completeness,— On her red mouth dropping myrrh, her hands Filled with fruitage and spice and sweetness? Must ye wait?