You promised to paint me a picture,Dear Mat,And I was to pay you in rhyme.Although I am loth to inflict yourMost easy of consciences, I'mOf opinion that fibbing is awful,And breaking a contract unlawful,Indictable, too, as a crime,A slight and all that.If, Lady Unbountiful, anyOf thatBy mortals called pity has partIn your obdurate soul—if a pennyYou care for the health of my heart,By performing your undertakingYou'll succor that organ from breaking—And spare it for some new smart,As puss does a rat.Do you think it is very becoming,Dear Mat,To deny me my rights evermoreAnd—bless you! if I begin summingYour sins they will make a long score!You never were generous, madam,If you had been Eve and I AdamYou'd have given me naught but the core,And little of that.Had I been content with a Titian,A catBy Landseer, a meadow by Claude,No doubt I'd have had your permissionTo take it—by purchase abroad.But why should I sail o'er the oceanFor Landseers and Claudes? I've a notionAll's bad that the critics belaud.I wanted a Mat.Presumption's a sin, and I sufferFor that:But still youdidsay that sometime,If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher—That's more than enough) of rhymeYou'd paint me a picture. I pay youHereby in advance; and I pray youCondone, while you can, your crime,And send me a Mat.But if you don't do it I warn you,Dear Mat,I'll raise such a clamor and cryOn Parnassus the Muses will scorn youAs mocker of poets and flyWith bitter complaints to Apollo:"Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow,Her beauty"—they'll hardly deny,On second thought,that!
The way was long, the hill was steep,My footing scarcely I could keep.The night enshrouded me in gloom,I heard the ocean's distant boom—The trampling of the surges vastWas borne upon the rising blast."God help the mariner," I cried,"Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!"Then from the impenetrable darkA solemn voice made this remark:"For this locality—warm, bright;Barometer unchanged; breeze light.""Unseen consoler-man," I cried,"Whoe'er you are, where'er abide,"Thanks—but my care is somewhat lessFor Jack's, than for my own, distress."Could I but find a friendly roof,Small odds what weather were aloof."For he whose comfort is secureAnother's woes can well endure.""The latch-string's out," the voice replied,"And so's the door—jes' step inside."Then through the darkness I discernedA hovel, into which I turned.Groping about beneath its thatch,I struck my head and then a match.A candle by that gleam betrayedSoon lent paraffinaceous aid.A pallid, bald and thin old manI saw, who this complaint began:"Through summer suns and winter snowsI sets observin' of my toes."I rambles with increasin' painThe path of duty, but in vain."Rewards and honors pass me by—No Congress hears this raven cry!"Filled with astonishment, I spoke:"Thou ancient raven, why this croak?"With observation of your toesWhat Congress has to do, Heaven knows!"And swallow me if e'er I knewThat one could sit and ramble too!"To answer me that ancient swainTook up his parable again:"Through winter snows and summer sunsA Weather Bureau here I runs."I calls the turn, and can declareJes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair."Three times a day I sings out clearThe probs to all which wants to hear."Some weather stations run with lightFrivolity is seldom right."A scientist from times remote,In Scienceville my birth is wrote."And when I h'ist the 'rainy' signJes' take your clo'es in off the line.""Not mine, O marvelous old man,The methods of your art to scan,"Yet here no instruments there be—Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see."Did you (if questions you permit)At the asylum leave your kit?"That strange old man with motion rudeGrew to surprising altitude."Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns—I tells the weather by my corns."No doors and windows here you see—The wind and m'isture enters free."No fires nor lights, no wool nor furHere falsifies the tempercher."My corns unleathered I exposeTo feel the rain's foretellin' throes."No stockin' from their ears keeps outThe comin' tempest's warnin' shout."Sich delicacy some has gotThey know next summer's to be hot."This here one says (for that he's best):'Storm center passin' to the west.'"This feller's vitals is transfixedWith frost for Janawary sixt'."One chap jes' now is occy'piedIn fig'rin on next Fridy's tide."I've shaved this cuss so thin and trueHe'll spot a fog in South Peru."Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swellObservatory can excel."By long a-studyin' their throbsI catches onto all the probs."Much more, no doubt, he would have said,But suddenly he turned and fled;For in mine eye's indignant greenLay storms that he had not foreseen,Till all at once, with silent squeals,His toes "caught on" and told his heels.
T.A.H.
Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer—Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all;Lived like a fool, or a philosopher.And had whatever's needful for a fall.As rough inflections on a planet mergeIn the true bend of the gigantic sphere,Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge,So in the survey of his worth the smallAsperities of spirit disappear,Lost in the grander curves of character.He lately was hit hard: none knew but IThe 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 redThe goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread,Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spokeHis welcome in a tongue so long forgotThat even his ancient guest remembered notWhat race had cursed him in it. Thus my friendStill conjugating with each failing senseThe verb "to die" in every mood and tense,Pursued his awful humor to the end.When like a stormy dawn the crimson brokeFrom his white lips he smiled and mutely bled,And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.
It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my inkA-drying along my paper,That a monument fine will surely be mineWhen death has extinguished my taper.From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribePurged clean of all sentiments narrow,A pebble will mark his respect for the starkStiff body that's under the barrow.By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stoneWill make my celebrity deathless.O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink,They'd wait till my carcass is breathless.
O ye who push and fightTo hear a wanton sing—Who utter the delightThat has the bogus ring,—O men mature in years,In understanding young,The membranes of whose earsShe tickles with her tongue,—O wives and daughters sweet,Who call it love of artTo kiss a woman's feetThat crush a woman's heart,—O prudent dams and sires,Your docile young who bringTo see how man admiresA sinner if she sing,—O husbands who impartTo each assenting spouseThe lesson that shall startThe buds upon your brows,—All whose applauding handsAssist to rear the fameThat throws o'er all the landsThe shadow of its shame,—Go drag her car!—the mudThrough which its axle rollsIs partly human bloodAnd partly human souls.Mad, mad!—your senses whirlLike devils dancing free,Because a strolling girlCan hold the note high C.For this the avenging rodOf Heaven ye dare defy,And tear the law that GodThundered from Sinai!
Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine(Unless to praise your rascal wine)Yet never ask some luckless sinnerWho needs, as I do not, a dinner?
Let lowly themes engage my humble pen—Stupidities of critics, not of men.Be it mine once more the maunderings to traceOf the expounders' self-directed race—Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine,Of diligent vacuity the sign.Let them in jargon of their trade rehearseThe moral meaning of the random verseThat runs spontaneous from the poet's penTo be half-blotted by ambitious menWho hope with his their meaner names to linkBy writing o'er it in another inkThe thoughts unreal which they think they think,Until the mental eye in vain inspectsThe hateful palimpsest to find the text.The lark ascending heavenward, loud and longSings to the dawning day his wanton song.The moaning dove, attentive to the sound,Its hidden meaning hastens to expound:Explains its principles, design—in brief,Pronounces it a parable of grief!The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thighWith pollen from a hollyhock near by,Declares he never heard in terms so justThe labor problem thoughtfully discussed!The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistleTo say: "A monologue upon the thistle!"Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wingAnd innocently asks: "What!—did I sing?"O literary parasites! who thriveUpon the fame of better men, deriveYour sustenance by suction, like a leech,And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,—Who find it half is profit, half delight,To write about what you could never write,—Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throesOf famine and discomfiture in thoseYou write of if they had been critics, too,And doomed to write of nothing but of you!Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent,To see the lion resolutely bent!The prosing showman who the beast displaysGrows rich and richer daily in its praise.But how if, to attract the curious yeoman,The lion owned the show and showed the showman?
Every religion is important. When men rise above existingconditions a new religion comes in, and it is betterthan the old one.—Professor Howison.
Professor dear, I think it queerThat all these good religions('Twixt you and me, some two or threeAre schemes for plucking pigeons)—I mean 'tis strange that every changeOur poor minds to unfetterEntails a new religion—trueAs t' other one, and better.From each in turn the truth we learn,That wood or flesh or spiritMay justly boast it rules the roastUntil we cease to fear it.Nay, once upon a time long goneMan worshipped Cat and Lizard:His God he'd find in any kindOf beast, from a to izzard.When risen above his early loveOf dirt and blood and slumber,He pulled down these vain deities,And made one out of lumber."Far better that than even a cat,"The Howisons all shouted;"When God is wood religion's good!"But one poor cynic doubted."A timber God—that's very odd!"Said Progress, and inventedThe simple plan to worship Man,Who, kindly soul! consented.But soon our eye we lift asky,Our vows all unregarded,And find (at least so says the priest)The Truth—and Man's discarded.Along our line of march reclineDead gods devoid of feeling;And thick about each sun-cracked loutDried Howisons are kneeling.
"To the will of the people we loyally bow!"That's the minority shibboleth now.O noble antagonists, answer me flat—What would you do if you didn't do that?
O, Sinner A, to me unknownBe such a conscience as your own!To ease it you to Sinner BConfess the sins of Sinner C.
Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach,With a him.And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach,On the limb;Yes, the bullfrog is a-croakingAnd the dudelet is a-smokingCigarettes;And the hackman is a-hackingAnd the showman is a-crackingUp his pets;Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shoreAnd the snapdog—we have heard it o'er and o'er;Yes, my poet,Well we know it—Know the spooners how they spoonIn the brightDollar lightOf the country tavern moon;Yes, the caterpillars fallFrom the trees (we know it all),And with beetles all the shelvesAre alive.Please unbuttonhole us—O,Have the grace to let us go,For we knowHow you Summer poets thrive,By the recapitulationAnd insistent iterationOf the wondrous doings incident to Life AmongOurselves!So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss.For you, poor human linnet,There's a half a living in it,But there's not a copper cent in it for us!
Posterity with all its eyesWill come and view him where he lies.Then, turning from the scene awayWith a concerted shrug, will say:"H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus—What interest has that to us?We can't admire at all, at all,A tumble-bug without its ball."And then a sage will rise and say:"Good friends, you err—turn back, I pray:This freak that you unwisely shunIs bug and ball rolled into one."
Ere Gabriel's note to silence diedAll graves of men were gaping wide.Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun,"Rose slowly from the deepest one."The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ,"Quoth he—"ick, bick, ban, doe,—I'm It!"(His headstone, footstone, counted slow,Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe":Of beating Nick the subtle artWas part of his immortal part.)Then straight to Heaven he took his flight,Arriving at the Gates of Light.There Warden Peter, in the throesOf sleep, lay roaring in the nose."Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried—"I've an engagement there inside."The Saint arose and scratched his head."I recollect your face," he said."(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard),But——" Dana handed him a card."Ah, yes, I now remember—blessMy soul, how dull I am I—yes, yes,"We've nothing better here than bliss.Walk in. But I must tell you this:"We've rest and comfort, though, and peace.""H'm—puddles," Dana said, "for geese."Have you in Heaven no Hell?" "Why, no,"Said Peter, "nor, in truth, below."'T is not included in our scheme—'T is but a preacher's idle dream."The great man slowly moved away."I'll call," he said, "another day."On earth I played it, o'er and o'er,And Heaven without it were a bore.""O, stuff!—come in. You'll make," said Pete,"A hell where'er you set your feet."1885.
I muse upon the distant townIn many a dreamy mood.Above my head the sunbeams crownThe graveyard's giant rood.The lupin blooms among the tombs.The quail recalls her brood.Ah, good it is to sit and traceThe shadow of the cross;It moves so still from place to placeO'er marble, bronze and moss;With graves to mark upon its arcOur time's eternal loss.And sweet it is to watch the beeThat reve's in the rose,And sense the fragrance floating freeOn every breeze that blowsO'er many a mound, where, safe and sound,Mine enemies repose.
God dreamed—the suns sprang flaming into place,And sailing worlds with many a venturous race!He woke—His smile alone illumined space.
Two villains of the highest rankSet out one night to rob a bank.They found the building, looked it o'er,Each window noted, tried each door,Scanned carefully the lidded holeFor minstrels to cascade the coal—In short, examined five-and-twentyGood paths from poverty to plenty.But all were sealed, they saw full soon,Against the minions of the moon."Enough," said one: "I'm satisfied."The other, smiling fair and wide,Said: "I'm as highly pleased as you:No burglar ever can get through.Fate surely prospers our design—The booty all is yours and mine."So, full of hope, the following dayTo the exchange they took their wayAnd bought, with manner free and frank,Some stock of that devoted bank;And they became, inside the year,One President and one Cashier.Their crime I can no further trace—The means of safety to embrace,I overdrew and left the place.
If the wicked gods were willing(Pray it never may be true!)That a universal chillingShould ensueOf the sentiment of loving,—If they made a great undoingOf the plan of turtle-doving,Then farewell all poet-lore,Evermore.If there were no more of billingThere would be no more of cooingAnd we all should be but owls—Lonely fowlsBlinking wonderfully wise,With our great round eyes—Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two,As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo;With regard to being mated,Asking still with aggravatedUngrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?"
"The delay granted by the weakness and good nature ofour judges is responsible for half the murders."—Daily Newspaper.
Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend,Impeach Delay and you will make an end.Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rotFor doing all the things that it should not.Put not good-natured judges under bond,But make Delay in damages respond.Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolledInto one pitiless, unsmiling scold—Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurledTo "lash the rascals naked through the world."The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thingAbove whose back your knotted scourges sing.Yoursatire, truly, like a razor keen,"Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;"For naught that you assail with falchion freeHas either nerves to feel or eyes to see.Against abstractions evermore you chargeYou hack no helmet and you need no targe.That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice,That wrong's not right and foulness never nice,Fearless affirm. All consequences dare:Smite the offense and the offender spare.When Ananias and Sapphira liedFalsehood, had you been there, had surely died.When money-changers in the Temple sat,At money-changing you'd have whirled the "cat"(That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen)And all the brokers would have cried amen!Good friend, if any judge deserve your blameHave you no courage, or has he no name?Upon his method will you wreak your wrath,Himself all unmolested in his path?Fall to! fall to!—your club no longer drawTo beat the air or flail a man of straw.Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrallWho cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall.Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal—Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel!We know that judges are corrupt. We knowThat crimes are lively and that laws are slow.We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay;That priests and preachers are but birds of pray;That merchants cheat and journalists for goldFlatter the vicious while at vice they scold.'Tis all familiar as the simple loreThat two policemen and two thieves make four.But since, while some are wicked, some are good,(As trees may differ though they all are wood)Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit,The bad would sentence and the good acquit.In sparing everybody none you spare:Rebukes most personal are least unfair.To fire at random if you still prefer,And swear at Dog but never kick a cur,Permit me yet one ultimate appealTo something that you understand and feel:Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade—You might be read if you would learn your trade.Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessedNot one of you but all are here addressed)Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heartDraws all eyes after it; an idle dartShot at some shadow flutters o'er the green,Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen.
When I was young and full of faithAnd other fads that youngsters cherishA cry rose as of one that saithWith unction: "Help me or I perish!"'Twas heard in all the land, and menThe sound were each to each repeating.It made my heart beat faster thenThan any heart can now be beating.For the world is old and the world is gray—Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty.She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say,And doesn't now go in for Pity.Besides, the melancholy cryWas that of one, 'tis now conceded,Whose plight no one beneath the skyFelt half so poignantly as he did.Moreover, he was black. And yetThat sentimental generationWith an austere compassion setIts face and faith to the occasion.Then there were hate and strife to spare,And various hard knocks a-plenty;And I ('twas more than my true share,I must confess) took five-and-twenty.That all is over now—the reignOf love and trade stills all dissensions,And the clear heavens arch againAbove a land of peace and pensions.The black chap—at the last we gaveHim everything that he had cried for,Though many white chaps in the grave'Twould puzzle to say what they died for.I hope he's better off—I trustThat his society and his master'sAre worth the price we paid, and mustContinue paying, in disasters;But sometimes doubts press thronging round('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching)If war for union was a soundAnd profitable undertaking.'Tis said they mean to take awayThe Negro's vote for he's unlettered.'Tis true he sits in darkness dayAnd night, as formerly, when fettered;But pray observe—howe'er he voteTo whatsoever party turning,He'll be with gentlemen of noteAnd wealth and consequence and learning.With Hales and Morgans on each side,How could a fool through lack of knowledge,Vote wrong? If learning is no guideWhy ought one to have been in college?O Son of Day, O Son of Night!What are your preferences made of?I know not which of you is right,Nor which to be the more afraid of.The world is old and the world is bad,And creaks and grinds upon its axis;And man's an ape and the gods are mad!—There's nothing sure, not even our taxes.No mortal man can Truth restore,Or say where she is to be sought for.I know what uniform I wore—O, that I knew which side I fought for!
Slain as they lay by the secret, slow,Pitiless hand of an unseen foe,Two score thousand old soldiers have crossedThe river to join the loved and lost.In the space of a year their spirits fled,Silent and white, to the camp of the dead.One after one, they fall asleepAnd the pension agents awake to weep,And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wailAs the souls flit by on the evening gale.O Father of Battles, pray give us releaseFrom the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace!
O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand:I fain would view the lettered stone.What carvest thou?—perchance some grandAnd solemn fancy all thine own.For oft to know the fitting wordSome humble worker God permits."Jain Ann Meginnis,Agid 3rd.He givith His beluved fits."
I saw a man who knelt in prayer,And heard him say:"I'll lay my inmost spirit bareTo-day."Lord, for to-morrow and its needI do not pray;Let me upon my neighbor feedTo-day."Let me my duty duly shirkAnd run awayFrom any form or phase of workTo-day."From Thy commands exempted stillLet me obeyThe promptings of my private willTo-day."Let me no word profane, no lieUnthinking sayIf anyone is standing byTo-day."My secret sins and vices graveLet none betray;The scoffer's jeers I do not craveTo-day."And if to-day my fortune allShould ebb away,Help me on other men's to fallTo-day."So, for to-morrow and its miteI do not pray;Just give me everything in sightTo-day."I cried: "Amen!" He rose and ranLike oil away.I said: "I've seen an honest manTo-day."
A famous journalist, who longHad told the great unheaded throngWhate'er they thought, by day or night.Was true as Holy Writ, and right,Was caught in—well, on second thought,It is enough that he was caught,And being thrown in jail becameThe fuel of a public flame."Vox populi vox Dei," saidThe jailer. Inxling bent his headWithout remark: that motto goodIn bold-faced type had always stoodAbove the columns where his penHad rioted in praise of menAnd all they said—provided heWas sure they mostly did agree.Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strifeTo take, or save, the culprit's lifeOr liberty (which, I suppose,Was much the same to him) aroseOutside. The journal that his penAdorned denounced his crime—but thenIts editor in secret triedTo have the indictment set aside.The opposition papers sworeHis father was a rogue before,And all his wife's relations wereLike him and similar to her.They begged their readers to subscribeA dollar each to make a bribeThat any Judge would feel was largeEnough to prove the gravest charge—Unless, it might be, the defensePut up superior evidence.The law's traditional delayWas all too short: the trial dayDawned red and menacing. The JudgeSat on the Bench and wouldn't budge,And all the motions counsel madeCould not movehim—and there he stayed."The case must now proceed," he said,"While I am just in heart and head,It happens—as, indeed, it ought—Both sides with equal sums have boughtMy favor: I can try the causeImpartially." (Prolonged applause.)The prisoner was now arraignedAnd said that he was greatly painedTo be suspected—he, whose penHad charged so many other menWith crimes and misdemeanors! "Why,"He said, a tear in either eye,"If men who live by crying out'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubtOf their integrity exempt,Let all forego the vain attemptTo make a reputation! Sir,I'm innocent, and I demur."Whereat a thousand voices criedAmain he manifestly lied—Vox populias loudly roaredAs bull bypicadoresgored,In his own coin receiving payTo make a Spanish holiday.The jury—twelve good men and true—Were then sworn in to see it through,And each made solemn oath that heAs any babe unborn was freeFrom prejudice, opinion, thought,Respectability, brains—aughtThat could disqualify; and someExplained that they were deaf and dumb.A better twelve, his Honor said,Was rare, except among the dead.The witnesses were called and sworn.The tales they told made angels mourn,And the Good Book they'd kissed becameRed with the consciousness of shame.Whenever one of them approachedThe truth, "That witness wasn't coached,Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both."Strike out his testimony," quothThe learned judge: "This Court deniesIts ear to stories which surprise.I hold that witnesses exemptFrom coaching all are in contempt."Both Prosecution and DefenseApplauded the judicial sense,And the spectators all averredSuch wisdom they had never heard:'Twas plain the prisoner would beFound guilty in the first degree.Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessedThe nameless terrors in his breast.He felt remorseful, too, becauseHe wasn't half they said he was."If I'd been such a rogue," he musedOn opportunities unused,"I might have easily becomeAs wealthy as Methusalum."This journalist adorned, alas,The middle, not the Bible, class.With equal skill the lawyers' pleasAttested their divided fees.Each gave the other one the lie,Then helped him frame a sharp reply.Good Lord! it was a bitter fight,And lasted all the day and night.When once or oftener the roarHad silenced the judicial snoreThe speaker suffered for the sportBy fining for contempt of court.Twelve jurors' noses good and trueUnceasing sang the trial through,And evenvox populiwas spentIn rattles through a nasal vent.Clerk, bailiff, constables and allHeard Morpheus sound the trumpet callTo arms—his arms—and all fell inSave counsel for the Man of Sin.That thaumaturgist stood and swayedThe wand their faculties obeyed—That magic wand which, like a flame.Leapt, wavered, quivered and becameA wonder-worker—known amongThe ignoble vulgar as a Tongue.How long, O Lord, how long my verseRuns on for better or for worseIn meter which o'ermasters me,Octosyllabically free!—A meter which, the poets say,No power of restraint can stay;—A hard-mouthed meter, suited wellTo him who, having naught to tell,Must hold attention as a troutIs held, by paying out and outThe slender line which else would breakShould one attempt the fish to take.Thus tavern guides who've naught to showBut some adjacent curioBy devious trails their patrons leadAnd make them think 't is far indeed.Where was I?While the lawyer talkedThe rogue took up his feet and walked:While all about him, roaring, slept,Into the street he calmly stepped.In very truth, the man who thoughtThe people's voice from heaven had caughtGod's inspiration took a changeOf venue—it was passing strange!Straight to his editor he wentAnd that ingenious person sentA Negro to impersonateThe fugitive. In adequateDisguise he took his vacant placeAnd buried in his arms his face.When all was done the lawyer stoppedAnd silence like a bombshell droppedUpon the Court: judge, jury, allWithin that venerable hall(Except the deaf and dumb, indeed,And one or two whom death had freed)Awoke and tried to look as thoughSlumber was all they did not know.And now that tireless lawyer-manTook breath, and then again began:"Your Honor, if you did attendTo what I've urged (my learned friendNodded concurrence) to supportThe motion I have made, this courtMay soon adjourn. With your assentI've shown abundant precedentFor introducing now, though late,New evidence to exculpateMy client. So, if you'll allow,I'll prove analibi!" "What?—how?"Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can'tDeny your showing, and I grantThe motion. Do I understandYou undertake to prove—good land!—That when the crime—you mean to showYour client wasn'tthere?" "O, no,I cannot quite do that, I find:Myalibi'sanother kindOfalibi,—I'll make it clear,Your Honor, that he isn'there."The Darky here upreared his head,Tranquillity affrighted fledAnd consternation reigned instead!
When Admonition's hand essaysOur greed to curse,Its lifted finger oft displaysOur missing purse.
J.F.B.
How well this man unfolded to our viewThe 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.Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knewThe fair philosophies of doubt so wellThat while we listened to his words there fellSome that were strangely comforting, though true.Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt,We said: "If so, by groping in the night,He can proclaim some certain paths of trust,How great our profit if he saw aboutHis feet the highways leading to the light."Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust!
It is a politician man—He draweth near his end,And friends weep round that partisan,Of every man the friend.Between the Known and the UnknownHe lieth on the strand;The light upon the sea is thrownThat lay upon the land.It shineth in his glazing eye,It burneth on his face;God send that when we come to dieWe know that sign of grace!Upon his lips his blessed spritePoiseth her joyous wing."How is it with thee, child of light?Dost hear the angels sing?""The song I hear, the crown I see,And know that God is love.Farewell, dark world—I go to beA postmaster above!"For him no monumental arch,But, O, 'tis good and braveTo see the Grand Old Party marchTo office o'er his grave!
Father! whose hard and cruel lawIs part of thy compassion's plan,Thy works presumptuously we scanFor what the prophets say they saw.Unbidden still the awful slopeWalling us in we climb to gainAssurance of the shining plainThat faith has certified to hope.In vain!—beyond the circling hillThe shadow and the cloud abide.Subdue the doubt, our spirits guideTo trust the Record and be still.To trust it loyally as heWho, 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 deedToo simply wise, too humbly great.The cannon syllabled his name;His shadow shifted o'er the land,Portentous, as at his commandSuccessive cities sprang to flame!He fringed the continent with fire,The rivers ran in lines of light!Thy will be done on earth—if rightOr wrong he cared not to inquire.His was the heavy hand, and hisThe service of the despot blade;His the soft answer that allayedWar's giant animosities.Let us have peace: our clouded eyes,Fill, Father, with another light,That we may see with clearer sightThy servant's soul in Paradise.