From pride, joy, hate, greed, melancholy
From any kind of vice, or folly,
Bias, propensity or passion
That is in prevalence and fashion,
Dear Bruner, once we had a little talk
(That is to say, 'twas I did all the talking)
About the manner of your moral walk:
How devious the trail you made in stalking,
On level ground, your law-protected game
'Another's Dollar' is, I think, its name.
As time rolled on the whole world came to be
A desolation and a darksome curse;
And some one said: 'The changes that you see
In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse,
Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer
Because the moon assisted with her shimmer.
O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand:
I fain would view the lettered stone.
What carvest thou?-perchance some grand
And solemn fancy all thine own.
For oft to know the fitting word
Some humble worker God permits.
Now Lonergan appears upon the boards,
And Truth and Error sheathe their lingual swords.
No more in wordy warfare to engage,
The commentators bow before the stage,
And bookworms, militant for ages past,
How well this man unfolded to our view
The world's beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell
This man whose own convictions none could tell,
Nor if his maze of reason had a clew.
Who told Creed Haymond he was witty?-who
Had nothing better in this world to do?
Could no greased pig's appeal to his embrace
Kindle his ardor for the friendly chase?
Weep, weep, each loyal partisan,
For Buckley, king of hearts;
A most accomplished man; a man
Of parts-of foreign parts.
Must you, Carnegie, evermore explain
Your worth, and all the reasons give again
Why black and red are similarly white,
And you and God identically right?