Goddess of Impudence,
Whose tinsel-crowned pretense
And shameless eye and cheek of polished brass
Rule Young America
With all-triumphant sway,
The forward school-boy and precocious lass,
Whose unweaned mouths smell of their nurses’ milk
And others of that ilk—
Inspire my pen,
Queen of the groundlings and the Upper Ten,
For to thy empire both belong
And both deserve a song.

What protean power
Is thy mysterious dower?
Thy wonder-working wand
Transmutes all things to gold like Midas’ hand—
All save the metal of thy followers’ face,
And that is brass, we know in every place;
Thy favors, where thou dost dispense,
Make up for lack of decency and sense;
Thy harlot tread
Crushes the modest violet in its bed;
Truth, wit, and merit are proclaimed a bore,
And kicked sans ceremonie from the door;
And power, wealth, and fame
Are given unto them who know no shame.

Thy trophies first are seen
In youths and maidens tender, young, and green,
Who stalk the streets about
Before their doting mothers know they’re out;
See how these infant swells
Gallant their baby belles,
Who know much more
Than their mammas found out at twenty-four;
They feel the early flame at seven;
At nine
They languish, sigh, and pine;
Till, dying to be wedded at thirteen,
A moonlight runaway concludes the scene.

The mincing maid,
Let loose from school,
Hooped, bustled, high-heeled, stayed,
Pert as a jay and stubborn as a mule,
Proves to the world that she has learned to faint
To dip, to lily-white, and paint,
And lift her skirts so high
That the unwilling eye
May see the neatness of her garter’s tie
Oh, Impudence; thou hast removed
The childish innocence we loved;
No more we see
The native blush of modesty;
Saucy and malapert,
The girl a coquette and the boy a flirt;
Forward and bold,
They honor not the old—
Not even the sire,
Who sits unhonored by his cheerless fire—
Too fondly dreaming of the sweet repose
Under the grape-vine shadows of Melrose.
Nor her who bore the brood,
The hissing vipers of ingratitude;
But dark and ominous fate
Sits like a raven o’er the gate
Whence modesty has fled,
And Impudence lifts up her brazen head,
For Folly’s breath pollutes the air,
And Wisdom will not linger there,
And all within
Bows to the iron rule of ignorance and sin.

See where the bold imposter plies his trade,
And cheats of every kind are made;
Quack creeds, quack medicines, quack politics,
In wild confusion mix;
And lo; the scribbler who writes down
The wisest and the noblest men,
With his envenomed pen,
To please the long-eared rabble of the town,
The darkly hinted calumny,
The vulgar jeer,
The cynic sneer,
The bold unblushing lie,
He scatters round in heedless wrath,
Like firebrands upon a madman’s path,
So when the infernal crew had hunted down
The statesman who deserved a crown,
And shot the empoisoned dart
Deep in his quivering heart,
While, like a stag chased home, at bay he stood,
Facing the clamorous pack athirst for blood;
With awful grandeur beaming in his eye,
Promethean in its agony,
The hireling scribbler all unshamed
By the sad gaze of him he had defamed,
Exulted in his hellish work,
As the assassin when he plies his dirk,
And styled himself apostle sent to teach
Mankind the glories of free thought and speech.

The Sage upon Judea’s Mount
Unsealed the everlasting fount
Of Peace and Truth and Love,
And the Evangel Dove
Came from the skies and nestled to his breast,
And bright-eyed Hope,
From Heaven’s starry slope,
Under his gentle reign,
Beheld the Golden Age return again,
And Earth was blest.
But lo; lean wolves have seized the fold,
And brass supplants the Age of Gold.
Luxurious, profligate, and vile,
With lips of guile,
And Judas’ kiss and smile,
The modern Pharisee,
With broad phylactery,
Converts the temple of his God
Into a mart of crime and fraud.
Inspired by thee, oh, Impudence;
He holds the words of truth and speaks a lie,
Cloaks blackest sins with fair pretense
Of Apostolic piety,
And shears the starving sheep and flays the lambs,
’Mid groans and prayers and penitential psalms.

Oh, Impudence; thy triumph is complete;
Mankind lie prostrate at thy feet,
And every class,
Like bees in swarm,
Are spell-bound by the charm
Of “tinkling cymbals and of sounding brass,”
Genius and modest worth
Starve in the cradle of their birth.
They win the meed of fame
Whose deeds deserve the pillory of shame;
Upon the topmost waves of honor ride,
As scum and froth float on the swollen tide.
So coxcombs in the garden blow,
While fragrant myrtles nestle low;

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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