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 AWFUL," 
 
 ^ND OTHER JI]SrG-LE 
 
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 By p. R. S. 
 
 7 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM & SOx^S, Publishers. 
 
 ASSOCIATION BUILDING. 
 1871. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the vear 1871, 
 
 By p. R. STEOXG, 
 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at "Washington. 
 
 LANGE & HtLLMAN, 
 PRINTERS AND STEREOTTPERS. 
 
 108, 110, 112 & 114 Wooster St., 
 NEW TORK. 
 
TO 
 CHARLES NORDHOFF, Esq.., 
 
 Author and Jonrnalist, 
 ;^i^ ^Respectfully Dedicated. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 Q^^;^Lr^ 
 
 Mr. Brandt's clever design, which iUus- 
 trates the title-page of this little volume, 
 is intended to be suggestive of the esti- 
 mate, in which such of its contents as as- 
 pire to be satirical, are regarded by their 
 author. 
 
 During the last few years, the writer of 
 these "jingles" has, from time to time, 
 (chiefly through the columns of the ''New 
 York Evening Post,") allowed himself to 
 "snatch a fearful joy," in popping away, 
 with his puny weapon, at sundry objects 
 
VI TO THE READER. 
 
 of a general, though, it may be, an ephe- 
 meral interest, as they loomed up on the 
 horizon of our public. 
 
 He ventures to hope that, in their pres- 
 ent collected form, these attempts at a 
 sportive raillery, not altogether wanton in 
 its aim, and, he trusts, not uncharitable 
 in its conception, may, as ''snap-shots," be 
 lightly, and even indulgently, scrutinized by 
 the keen eye of the critic. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 I.— "Awful!" 9 
 
 II. — A Recipe for a Poem " in Dialect," 14 
 
 III. — Tyng-a-ling-ting, 18 
 
 IV. — Medieval Pottery, .... 26 
 
 V. — Our " Little Boys in Surplices," . 31 
 VI. — A Protestant's Appeal to Father 
 
 Hyacinthe, 35 
 
 VII. — The Peace Jubilee, . ... 39 
 
 VIII.— The Prince's Visit, .... 42 
 
 IX. — A New Year's Ballad, ... 45 
 
 X. — Our last Snow-Storm, ... 51 
 
 XI. — The Death - Song op the " Loew 
 
 Bridge," 55 
 
 XII.— Our New Firm : a Broad-Street 
 
 Ballad, 62 
 
 XIII. — Song of the Protectionist, . . 68 
 
 XIV.— The "Lost Cause," .... 74 
 
 XV.— A Tale of a Kite. .... 81 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XVI.- 
 XVII.- 
 
 XVIII.- 
 
 XIX.- 
 
 XX.- 
 
 XXI.- 
 
 XXII.- 
 
 XXIII.- 
 
 XXIV.- 
 
 XXV.- 
 
 XXVI.. 
 
 XXVII.- 
 
 XXVIII.- 
 
 XXIX. 
 XXX.- 
 
 -" Cui Bono ? " Addressed to Mrs. Stowe, 
 -Thoughts suggested by a certain 
 
 Holiday-Book, ... 
 -Magdala : AN Abyssinian Ballad, , 
 -To OUR Centenarian, . . . , 
 -To THE Same, .... 
 -" In Memoriam : " Charles Dickens 
 -The Oneida Massacre, 
 -Thoughts on New-Year's Eve, 
 -" Annus Ir.e," .... 
 -Paris : a "Lamentation," . 
 
 -To Inez, 
 
 -To 
 
 -Motto for Brandt's Picture of 
 
 " Resignation," 
 -The " Eat-Hole Squadron," 
 -" When Found, make a Note of it ! " 
 
 Page. 
 
 89 
 
 93 
 96 
 105 
 110 
 114 
 118 
 123 
 128 
 131 
 184 
 136 
 
 138 
 139 
 
 144 
 
AWFUL ! 
 
 I WAS dining at Delmonico's, a week or two 
 
 ago, 
 With a charming little maiden and her dapper 
 
 little beau ; 
 And I tried, by close attention, as I trifled with 
 
 my fork, 
 To arrive at a solution of the meaning of their 
 
 talk. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was all about a party, which, they said, was 
 
 " awful jolly," 
 Where their ''awful pretty" hostess had an 
 
 " awful handsome Dolly ;'* 
 
lO <' AWFUL ! " 
 
 And an " awful cunning necklace," which her 
 '' awful good papa " 
 
 Had procured for her at Tiffany's, while shop- 
 ping with mamma. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet 'twould seem there was a drawback to the 
 pleasures of the fete, 
 
 For the '' awful stylish " Reginald arrived "so 
 awful late," 
 
 And the ''awful swell" arrangement of his 
 '' awful nice " cravat. 
 
 And his ''awful lovely " waistcoat didn't com- 
 pensate for that. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then he flirted—" oh, 'twas awful !"— with that 
 " awful little minx " 
 
"awful!" II 
 
 Who was dancing, after supper, to the strains 
 
 of '^ Captain Jinks ;" 
 And he paid such " awful compliments " — 'twas 
 
 really quite absurd — 
 Just the " awfullest of nonsense that a creature 
 
 ever heard." 
 
 I listened, quite bewildered by the babble of 
 
 the pair, 
 Who were sitting at the table, with a very quiet 
 
 air; 
 And I thought, " My little darlings, if your 
 
 soup were half as hot 
 Or as potent as your language, it would kill you 
 
 on the spot ! 
 
12 ''awful! 
 
 VI. 
 
 *' Now, if such a thing should happen, though 
 
 you'd make an ' awful ' end, 
 'Twould be fitting retribution for your usage of 
 
 a friend — 
 A grave and solemn Adjective — true Saxon to 
 
 the core — 
 Who should meet with proper treatment, not 
 
 be forced to prove a bore. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I confess, it sorely puzzles me, to think what 
 
 you would say, 
 If a something really azuftd wxre to happen in 
 
 your way ; 
 For I'm sure, with simple English, you would 
 
 never be content. 
 
''awful!" 13 
 
 But your thoughts, in foreign expletives, 
 would have to find a vent." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 While musing in this fashion, (feeling rather 
 
 cross and old,) 
 I forgot about my dinner, which was getting 
 
 " awful " cold ; 
 And the adjective kept dropping from the lips 
 
 of either child, 
 Till with '' awful," " Awful," '' AWFUL," I 
 
 was fairly driven wild. 
 
A RECIPE FOR A POEM '^IN DIALECT.' 
 
 Take, for your hero, some thorough-bred 
 
 scamp. 
 Miner, or pilot, or jockey, or tramp — 
 Gambler (of course), drunkard, bully, and cheat, 
 *' Facile princeps'" in ways of deceit ; 
 So fond of ladies, lie's given to bigamy, 
 (Better, perhaps, if you make it polygamy) ; 
 Pepper his talk with the raciest slang. 
 Culled from the haunts of his pestilent gang ; 
 Season with blasphemy, lard him with curses. 
 Serve him up hot in your '■^ dialect " verses. 
 Properly dished, he'll excite a sensation, 
 And tickle the taste of our delicate nation. 
 
RECIPE FOR A POEM "IN DIALECT. 1 5 
 
 II. 
 
 Old Mother English has twaddled enough : 
 Give us a language that's ready and rough ! 
 Who cares, just now, for a subject Miltonlan? 
 Who isn't bored by a style Addisonian ? 
 Popular heroes must wear shabby clothes ! 
 What if their diction is cumbered with oaths ? 
 That's but a feature of life Occidental, 
 Really, at heart, they are pious and gentle. 
 Think, for example, how solemn and rich is 
 The sermon we gather from dear " Little 
 
 Breeches " ! 
 Isn't it charming — that sweet baby-talk, 
 Of the urchin who '' chawed " ere he fairly 
 
 could walk ? 
 Sure 'tis no wonder bright spirits above 
 Singled him out for their errand of love ! 
 
1 6 RECIPE FOR A POEM. " IN DIALECT. 
 
 III. 
 
 I suppose I'm a " fogy " — not up to the age — • 
 But I can't help recalhng an earher stage, 
 When a Poet meant something beyond a Re- 
 porter, 
 And his Hnes could be read to a sister or 
 
 daughter ; 
 When a real inspiration {diviniLS afflatus) 
 Could be printed without any saving hiatus ; 
 When humor was decently shrouded in rhyme, 
 As suited the primitive ways of the time ; 
 And we all would have blushed, had we 
 
 dreamed of the rules, 
 Which are taught us to-day in our'' Dialect" 
 schools. 
 
 IV. 
 It may be all right, though I find it all wrong, 
 This queer prostitution of talent in song ; 
 
RECIPE FOR A POEM " IN DIALECT." 1/ 
 
 Perhaps, in our market, gold sells at a loss, 
 And the public will pay better prices for 
 
 dross — 
 Well ! 'twere folly to row 'gainst a tide that 
 
 has turned, 
 And the lesson that's set us has got to be 
 
 learned ; 
 But I'll make one more desperate pull to be free 
 Ere I swallow the brood of that " Heathen 
 
 Chinee." 
 
 March 27, 1871. ' 
 
TYNG-A-LYNG-TING. 
 
 I. 
 
 *^ Oh say ! Brother Stubbs, have you heard 
 
 how they talk 
 Of this horrid Low Churchman, who's coming 
 
 from ' York,' 
 And who vows that, next Sunday, he'll preach 
 
 without gown 
 In the Methodist meeting-house here in our 
 
 town ? 
 Why, it's all in the papers, and men, as they 
 
 run, 
 Can read of the deed, that will shortly be 
 
 done ; 
 
TYNG-A-LING-TING. 1 9 
 
 It will empty our churches, for, most of our 
 
 sheep 
 Will take the occasion to listen and peep ; 
 And, for many a day, will our parishes ring 
 With the tiresome jingle of Tyng-a-ling-ting." 
 
 II. 
 
 *' Oh, what's to be done ? can't this outrage be 
 
 stopped ? 
 Can't our tottering pulpits, in some way be 
 
 propped ? 
 Let's run to our Bishop, and tell him the 
 
 news ; 
 His Reverence, doubtless, will shake in his 
 
 shoes. 
 When he hears that without, nay, against our 
 
 consent, 
 A son of the Church has declared his intent 
 
20 TYNG-A-LING-TING. 
 
 To follow, SO blindly, his Master's command, 
 And to sow his good seed on another man's 
 
 land. 
 Come, on let us hurry to settle this thing, 
 By stifling the chorus of Tyng-a-ling-ting ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 So, straight to their Bishop a journey they 
 make, 
 
 And, at first, the sad news makes him quiver 
 and quake ; 
 
 But his courage revives, as their tale they un- 
 fold, 
 
 And he says, with an accent decided and 
 bold, 
 
 " Dear friends, there's a canon long buried in 
 dust. 
 
 And terribly choked up with ashes and rust ; 
 
TYNG-A-LING-TING. 21 
 
 But we'll oil it, and give it some wipes and 
 
 some rubs, 
 And we'll load it with charges of Boggs and of 
 
 Stubbs, 
 And then, as a paean of triumph we sing, 
 We'll fire it off with a Tyng-a-ling-ting." 
 
 IV. 
 
 So the Bishop he delves, and the Bishop he 
 
 grubs, 
 And, by dint of assistance from Boggs and 
 
 from Stubbs, 
 The canon is dragged from the rubbish, which 
 
 chokes 
 Its ugly old muzzle ; and loud are the jokes 
 Which its obsolete pattern, and straight, narrow 
 
 bore 
 Excite in the crowd, who are waiting its 
 
 roar ; 
 
22 TYNG-A-LING-TING. 
 
 And then they compel our good Bishop of 
 
 " York " 
 To hear all the grievance, and stand all the 
 
 talk ; 
 And by night, and by day, dreary changes they 
 
 ring, 
 As they chime their sad anthem of Tyng-a- 
 
 ling-ting. 
 
 V. 
 
 And then to St. Peter's, to open the court. 
 The judges, and jury, and counsel resort ; 
 And good Christian people, with wondering 
 
 ears, 
 Are waiting to hear a priest tried by his 
 
 peers. 
 And they call up the case, .and the lawyers 
 
 begin 
 To indulge in their usual, professional din, 
 
TYNG-A-LING-TING. 23 
 
 And, by bitter invective, and quibble, and 
 
 sneer. 
 To show what a mass of corruption is here. 
 And really 'tis shocking! what charges they 
 
 bring. 
 As they peal the loud slogan of Tyng-a-ling- 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ah me, 'tis a sight at which angels might 
 
 weep ! 
 'Tis a harvest of tares for our churches to 
 
 reap! 
 Sweet charity's presence has fled from the 
 
 scene. 
 And good men lose temper, and revel in 
 
 spleen ; 
 
24 TYNG-A-LING-TING. 
 
 And the doubters and scoffers, who relish such 
 
 suits, 
 Cry, " Lo, these are Christians ! come, judge 
 
 of their fruits ! " 
 And the cauon has burst, and with dissonance 
 
 loud, 
 Has deafened the ears of the shuddering 
 
 crowd. 
 And the pall of its smoke, like a garment doth 
 
 cling 
 To the walls, that still echo with tf Tyng-a- 
 
 ling-ting. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh ! servants of Him whose sole mission 
 
 was Love, 
 Do ye still bear as emblems, the Lamb and the 
 
 Dove? 
 
TYNG-A-LING-TING. 25 
 
 When ye read, from your desks, the sweet les- 
 sons that tell, 
 How He preached in the Temple, and taught 
 
 at the well. 
 Doth the sapient glance of your wisdom de- 
 
 tect 
 That he bounded your duties by parish or 
 
 sect? 
 Oh ! bid these small envies and jealousies 
 
 cease ! 
 Join all in one brotherly anthem of peace ; 
 And, when your glad voices in harmony ring, 
 They'll drown the harsh discord of Tyng-a- 
 
 ling-ting. 
 February 31, 1868. 
 
MEDIEVAL POTTERY. 
 
 A SEQUEL TO TYNG-A-LING-TING. 
 
 I. 
 
 On the shelves of old cabinets, costly and rare, 
 You'll often find bits of Majolica ware ; 
 An article formerly much in repute, 
 And oddly bedizened with reptiles and fruit ; 
 Its choicest productions were ugly and rude. 
 And its offspring, at best, a fantastical brood ; 
 But the fame of '' Palissy the Potter " and 
 
 stoic. 
 Has lent, to its origin, something heroic. 
 
 II. 
 
 How charming his history ! Read it and mark 
 What a flame you can raise, if you'll stick to 
 the spark ! 
 
MEDIEVAL POTTERY. 2/ 
 
 To bend the rude elements just to his will, 
 He braved every hardship, with patience and 
 
 skill : 
 He kneaded the clay, and he baked and he 
 
 burned, 
 Till the scale of his destiny finally turned ; 
 The secret was guessed, and the victory won, 
 And Majolica shone in the light of the sun. 
 
 III. 
 
 Well, men are but clay ! and to mould us to 
 
 aught, 
 That is broad or contracted in action or 
 
 thought, 
 We need but a Potter, who'll knead us as well, 
 And will bid our proportions to narrow or 
 
 swell. 
 
28 MEDIEVAL POTTERY. 
 
 There are times, when a lengthy and stern 
 
 admonition, 
 Might work a vast change in our Christian 
 
 condition ; 
 Perchance, it might point us the way to our 
 
 home. 
 If free from all doctrine that savors of Rome. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There are sights at St. Albans from which, we 
 
 should think, 
 Any orthodox churchman, with horror, might 
 
 shrink ; 
 In the Chapel of Trinity, mass has been sung 
 By priests, who rejoiced in a ^' classical tongue." 
 But, for these ^ the strong arm of '' the Church " 
 
 has been stayed, 
 And the voice of her thunders most strangely 
 
 delayed, 
 
MEDIyEVAL POTTERY. 29 
 
 And '' Our Protestant Lady " has failed to 
 
 protest, 
 For reasons (no doubt), which are wisest and 
 
 best. 
 
 V. 
 
 Are we turning a page of the present or past ? 
 Is the cloud mediaeval still over us cast ? 
 Do we live to enforce narrow edicts that bind 
 Each generous impulse of conscience and mind, 
 Then lull us to slumber, so lasting and deep 
 That no noisy Reformer can trouble our sleep ; 
 And forbid all repairs to our mouldering wall, 
 Though its time-honored arches should 
 threaten to fall ? 
 
 VI, 
 
 The Potter can fashion (in suiting each case). 
 One vessel to honor and one to disgrace. 
 
30 MEDIEVAL POTTERY. 
 
 He can give, to his work, the broad stamp of 
 his age, 
 
 Or the quaint, crabbed lines of an earlier 
 stage ; 
 
 But, in moulding " Church Articles," let him 
 beware, 
 
 And handle his tools with particular care ! 
 
 For the lightest of shocks to the frail manu- 
 facture. 
 
 Will sometimes result in a terrible fracture. 
 Apnl 7, 1868. 
 
'^ OUR LITTLE BOYS IN SURPLICES." 
 
 "He [Dr. H.], for one, -was willing to dispense witli the 
 services of ' our little boys in tlieir customary dresses,' if 
 tlie consciences of certain delegates were troubled by tlieir 
 presence, tliougli lie could not understand sucli squeamish 
 feelings." — Remarks in Oeneral Convention, 1868. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh ! we've heard full enough of the '^ boys in 
 
 gray," 
 And *' the boys in blue " have had their day ; 
 And now I submit that it's orthodox, quite, 
 To speak a few words for our boys in white ; 
 Those nice little fellows in surplices. 
 
 II. 
 
 How sweetly they look as they stand in a 
 
 row, 
 With each dear little mouth rounded just like 
 
 an O, 
 
32 " OUR LITTLE BOYS IN SURPLICES." 
 
 And their cheeks all aflame, as they strain at 
 
 the notes, 
 Which rise to the skies from their pure little 
 throats ! 
 Those good little boys in surplices. 
 
 III. 
 
 Men's voices and women's, are all well 
 
 enough 
 To sing about love, or some other such stuff; 
 But, to fill a high church with melodious 
 
 noise. 
 You may trust to my word, there is nothing 
 
 like boys ; 
 Like our own little boys in surplices. 
 
 IV. 
 *Tis true, there are worshippers, '' squeamish " 
 
 and low. 
 Who look on the thing as a kind of a show, 
 
'' OUR LITTLE BOYS IN SURPLICES. 33 
 
 And who roundly complain, with a shrug and 
 
 a sigh, 
 That the little boys' voices are rather too 
 
 - high," 
 In spite of the weight of the surplices. 
 
 V. 
 
 Now, really, such people are naught but a 
 
 scandal ; 
 We can't have a mass, and we can't light a 
 
 candle, 
 But some one objects to those innocent joys, 
 And now they're attacking our poor little 
 
 boys ; 
 Those sweet little darlings in surplices. 
 
 VI. 
 
 You may pile up your pillows, ye merciless 
 
 crew ! 
 But our babies shall never be smothered by you; 
 
34 " OUR LITTLE BOYS IN SURPLICES." 
 
 For their *' Tower" is proof against all that 
 
 annoys, 
 And we'll fight, to the last, for our '' Trinity 
 
 boys ; " 
 Our little pet choir in surplices. 
 
A PROTESTANT'S APPEAL TO 
 FATHER HYACINTHE. 
 
 Oh, wandering Priest, whose very name is 
 
 fragrant. 
 Sure thy offences must be sadly flagrant, 
 Since thus they drive thee to our sheltering 
 
 nation, 
 Chased by a Bull — of excommunication ! 
 
 Canst thou not swallow down, with due hu- 
 mility. 
 This doctrine of '' Papa's" infallibility^ 
 Are not the virtues of the line pontifical 
 Printed in type, distinct though hieroglyphical ? 
 
36 A PROTESTANT'S APPEAL. 
 
 Have any of St. Peter's " true successors" 
 
 Ever been known to walk with the transgres- 
 sors ? 
 
 Have they not all, by wisdom, love, and meek- 
 ness. 
 
 Proved that a Pope is free from human weak- 
 ness? 
 
 We cannot help admiring thy sincerity. 
 But still we shudder at thy rare temerity ; 
 Clearly, thy ^' status" as a Priest is critical. 
 If measured by the standard Jesuitical. 
 
 Well ! now thou art our guest ; and hospitality 
 With us is no vain shadow, but reality ; 
 If anything that flies can see through it. 
 We " guess" 02cr Eagle is the bird to do it. 
 
A PROTESTANT'S APPEAL. 37 
 
 Thou'lt find our worshippers a " mixed assort- 
 ment," 
 
 Quite various in doctrine and deportment ; 
 
 Some are " sky-high," while others make ob- 
 jections 
 
 To pictures, candlesticks and genuflexions. 
 
 Mormons and Baptists, Methodists and 
 Quakers, 
 
 Jews, Turks, and Puritans, and Sabbath-break- 
 ers, 
 
 Saints, Pharisees, and publicans and sinners. 
 
 Will surfeit thee with flattery and dinners. 
 
 '^Let us have Peace!" why hesitate? ^' cui 
 
 bono ? " 
 Choose now for Luther or for '' Fio No7io ! " 
 Come 0M\. flat-footed ! let us plainly gather, 
 If thou art still in thrall to '' Holy Father." 
 
38 A PROTESTANT'S APPEAL. 
 
 Don't keep us waiting ; for, in long proces- 
 sion, 
 
 We Protestants are wild for thy possession ; 
 
 From Trinity 'way down to Plymouth Chapel, 
 
 We're quite prepared to wrangle, close, and 
 grapple. 
 
 So, Father Hyacinthe ! dear friend and brother. 
 Will thou not, please y be one thing or the other ? 
 Jump off the fence ! thy bellowing foe's behind 
 
 thee ; 
 Land on our side, and take the part assigned 
 thee. 
 October 29, 1869. 
 
THE PEACE JUBILEE. 
 
 (GotJiamitus loquitur}) 
 I. 
 Go it, Boston ! Well, now, really. 
 
 This is something like a show ; 
 Gallant little bantam ! clearly, 
 
 You have earned the right to crow. 
 Goodness gracious ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Why this cock-a-doodle-doo, 
 Piercing with its startling clatter. 
 
 All the country, through and through ? 
 
 II. 
 
 What has roused this '' dreadful pother," 
 
 All this tempest in a pot ? 
 Break it gently, Yankee brother, 
 
 But in mercy tell us what. 
 
40 THE PEACE JUBILEE. 
 
 " Peace," you say ; but, comrade, surely 
 
 Not the peace of long ago ! 
 Why, 'tis years since we securely, 
 
 Settled with our Southern foe. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then, besides, that little quarrel 
 
 Was a family affair ; 
 Boots it now to preach its moral 
 
 W^ith your noisy trumpet's blare? 
 When our erring, '^ wayward sisters " 
 
 Tossed the sponge, 'twas quite enough 
 Why keep clapping on such blisters. 
 
 As your jubilees and stuff? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Let the grim Past sleep in quiet. 
 
 ^' Onward," *' onward," be the word i 
 Wake not, with untimely riot, 
 
 Mem'ries that should not be stirred. 
 
THE PEACE JUBILEE. 41 
 
 O'er those scenes of crime and folly, 
 
 Gently drop oblivion's pall ; 
 Cant you manage to be jolly 
 
 Without making such a squall ? 
 
 V. 
 
 What ? you say you can't ? then go it ! 
 
 Crow your loudest ; rack your domes ; 
 While you camion-ize your poet, 
 
 You'll be constant to your Holmes, 
 So, at least, you'll be domestic. 
 
 And you'll meet with great renown, 
 As your owl, with flight majestic. 
 
 Hovers over Boston town. 
 June 16, 1869. 
 
THE PRINCE'S VISIT. 
 
 A SEQUEL TO THE " MORTE D'ARTHUR. 
 
 I. 
 
 "Arthur is come again !" 
 
 {Vide your Tennyson). 
 
 Let us extend to him 
 
 Welcome and benison ! 
 
 Treat him to canvas-back, 
 
 Terrapin, venison — 
 
 Ne'er shall Victoria 
 
 Twit us that any son 
 Born " in the purple," has met with neglect. 
 From a nation that holds her in honest respect. 
 
THE PRINCE S VISIT 43' 
 
 II. 
 
 " Arthur is come again !'* 
 
 Never a girl in 
 
 Our jubilant city 
 
 But dreams of a whirl in 
 
 The arms of the hero, 
 
 Whose coming, old Merlin 
 
 Predicted as certain, 
 
 (Though, whether at Berlin, 
 Or Paris, or Gotham, he didn't define), 
 And a smile from *' the Prince," as he passes 
 the wine. 
 
 III. 
 
 ** Arthur is come again !" 
 List to old Trinity. 
 What a clear case of 
 Elective affinity ! 
 Soon as he reaches that 
 Fane of divinity, 
 
44 THE PRINCE S VISIT. 
 
 Even before he has 
 Set his foot in it, he 
 Hears the loud anthem of " God Save the 
 
 Queen," 
 And finds, though it's Sunday, he's in for a 
 scene. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Arthur is come again!" 
 Good ! let him come ! 
 At our simple '^ Round Table " 
 There's plenty of room. 
 If (by chance) in his pocket 
 He happens to hold 
 What the thief " Alabama " 
 Has cost us VI gold^ 
 We'll forget we're republicans : yes, and I ween 
 We'll all join in the chorus of '' God Save the 
 Queen !" 
 February 8, 1870. 
 
A NEW YEAR'S BALLAD. 
 
 '' Le rot est mort ! Vive le roi /" 
 I. 
 
 My stars, what a baby ! just see how he kicks ! 
 
 Why, he's bubbhng all over with frolicksome 
 tricks ; 
 
 Look ! he's climbed to the box, and got hold 
 of the reins, 
 
 And he's dashing, like mad, o'er the moun- 
 tains and plains. 
 
 Though a very fresh chip from a very old block. 
 
 He gives ample assurance to warrant his stock. 
 
 II. 
 
 Well, let him roll on with his fuss and his clat- 
 ter, 
 
46 A NEW year's ballad. 
 
 To bless and to ban, and to build and to batter; 
 
 But one thing is sure, whether racing or creep- 
 ing, 
 
 As he isn't Bissextile, he won't take to leaping ; 
 
 Fewer days than his father, he's doomed to 
 survive. 
 
 Who had three-sixty-six to his three-sixty-five 
 
 in. 
 
 And what will he see, in his rollicking flight. 
 With its flickering changes of shadow and 
 
 light ? 
 What new star of hope is he likely to find? 
 What beacon, to scatter the mists of the 
 
 mind*? 
 What temple of wisdom, whose builders have 
 
 wrought 
 With a holy design in their labor and thought.*' 
 
A NEW year's ballad. 47 
 
 IV. 
 
 How he'll pause, with a comical stare of sur- 
 prise, 
 
 When the picture of Europe unfolds to his 
 eyes ! 
 
 With her lions, and eagles, and roosters, and 
 bears. 
 
 All sullen, and watchful, and burdened with 
 cares ; 
 
 All waiting a chance to give point to the moral, 
 
 That ''might makes the right," when you set- 
 tle a quarrel. 
 
 Will he cheer up the heart of that heir of St. 
 
 Peter, 
 Who is singing, just now, in such very short 
 
 metre ; 
 
48 A NEW year's ballad. 
 
 Who still jingles his keys in the ears of his 
 
 flock, 
 But objects, like A. Pope, to the '' Rape of the 
 
 Lock"? 
 Will he tell him of Protestant folks in the 
 
 West, 
 Who would seem to be winging their way to 
 
 his nest? 
 
 VI. 
 
 I'll wager he'll pass, without turning his head. 
 Over Asia and Africa, twins of the dead ; 
 But he'll take a good look, as he hurries along. 
 At our model republic, so lusty and strong ; 
 At the stars we have rescued, the stripes which, 
 
 of yore. 
 Were a jest to the witlings who thronged to 
 
 our shore. 
 
A NEW year's ballad. 49 
 
 VIL 
 
 He will find us (God grant he may leave us) at 
 peace, 
 
 With a will to advance, and with room to in- 
 crease ; 
 
 With our own chosen leader, whose prayer, 
 like a balm, 
 
 First stole to our hearts with its promise of 
 calm. 
 
 He will find us not thankless, though sifted 
 and tried ; 
 
 With our past as a warning, our future to 
 guide. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then a health to the baby ! come, comrades, 
 
 unite 
 In a " Welcome, sweet stranger, so active and 
 
 bright!" 
 
50 A NEW year's ballad. 
 
 Let our jubilant voices in harmony chime 
 To this heir of the seasons, this bantling of 
 
 Time, 
 Till the wondering nations grow sick of the 
 
 riot. 
 And beg that we'll be just a trifle more quiet ! 
 January 1, 1869. 
 
OUR LAST SNOW STORM. 
 
 " Jam satis terris nivis atque dirge 
 " Grandinis misit Pater," etc. 
 
 Horace, Carm. ad. Cses. Aao-. 
 
 I. 
 Yes, Horace was right! It would ruffle a 
 saint, 
 To see how the snow-flakes are tumbh'ng ; 
 Why, even Old Boreas howls a complaint. 
 
 And scatters them, scolding and grumbling. 
 They whiten our streets, which had Whiting^ 
 
 enough, 
 Before this last dose of a " perilous stuff," 
 Which threatens destruction to body and 
 
 bones, 
 As we stumble and reel on the slippery stones. 
 * The street contractor of the day. 
 
52 OUR LAST SNOW STORM. 
 
 II. 
 
 They say that our city is sewered : no doubt ; 
 But that doesn't help ousr condition ; 
 
 For 'tis Sczvard himself who has brought this 
 about, 
 In his role of '' the Great Politician." 
 
 He'd have done well enough, had he stopped 
 with St. Thomas, 
 
 But Alaska, he ought to have kept away from 
 us ; 
 
 And Congress should, really, pass laws of pre- 
 vention. 
 
 To guard us, in future, from Arctic extension. 
 
 Til. 
 
 This may be a March, but it's awfully slow ! 
 'Tis as slow as the '' Dead " one in '' Saul ;' 
 
OUR LAST SNOW STORM. 53 
 
 While singing of flov/ers, we're choked with 
 the snow, 
 And our melody ends in a squall. 
 Our frost-bitten sparrows, who lately foretold, 
 That winter was over, look dreadfully " sold," 
 And seem as unhappy, and dumpish, and 
 
 dreary, 
 As if they had met with a " corner " in Erie. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Well, all things must end, and with " suffer- 
 rc 
 
 We'll wait for a change of the scenery ; 
 But we cannot help fearing, that something 
 
 With the works of our planet's machinery. 
 Should her axle want greasing, sure naught 
 could be done 
 
54 OUR LAST SNOW STORM. 
 
 To bring us again within reach of the sun, 
 Unless Dr. Hayes, or some other good soul, 
 Would just dribble a cargo of oil at her Pole. 
 
 Vernal Equinox, 1868. 
 
THE DEATH-SONG OF THE "LOEW" 
 BRIDGE. 
 
 Oh, why was I born, since so quickly I die ? 
 Will any good Christian please answer me 
 
 why? 
 Unpitied, unwept, and (it may be) unsung. 
 On a pile of old scraps, I am doomed to be 
 
 flung. 
 But my wrongs shall find utterance yet, ere I 
 
 go, 
 And our city shall ring with the voice of my 
 
 woe. 
 
 Two summers have tried me with torturing 
 fire; 
 
56 DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 
 
 The snows of two winters have vented their ire ; 
 I have borne all the heat, and resisted the cold, 
 With a spirit unyielding, and constant, and 
 
 bold; 
 No shameless accuser has dared to pretend, 
 That I ever have threatened to waver or bend. 
 
 When, o'er the packed thoroughfare known as 
 
 Broadway, 
 My youthful proportions first greeted the day, 
 With what loud hosannas, they shouted my 
 
 name. 
 How they vied with each other, to herald my 
 
 fame ! 
 But, alas ! all these laurels are torn from my 
 
 brow. 
 And none are *' so poor, to do reverence " 
 
 now. 
 
 Oh ! spare me a little, that I may renew 
 
DEATH-SOXG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 57 
 
 The pictures and scenes, that have dazzled my 
 
 view, 
 Through all the long gallery, stirring and rife 
 With the phantoms, that whirl in the mazes of 
 
 life. 
 Let me list, once again, to that Babel of 
 
 throats, 
 That roar of the crowd, as it rises and floats. 
 
 Under me, over me, surging, a throng, 
 Ceaseless and restless, has hurried along ; 
 Men, who were cankered by Mammon and 
 
 care ; 
 Women, with burdens unseemly to bear ; 
 Children, who climbed me with innocent feet. 
 Thrilling my frame with their frolicsome beat. 
 
 Proudly and joyfully, under my arch, 
 Soldiers have moved to the strains of the 
 march ; 
 
58 DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 
 
 Slowly and sadly, the car of the dead, 
 Hollowly rumbling, has followed their tread ; 
 Life in its sunshine, and death in its gloom, 
 Guests for the banquet, and food for the 
 tomb ! 
 
 But, now it appears, I'm no longer the fash- 
 ion ; 
 
 (Were I not iron-clad, I should burst in a 
 passion ;) 
 
 There is ^' metal " 'twould seem, '' more at- 
 tractive " to many, 
 
 Who swallow a guinea, but strain at a penny ; 
 
 And the merciless foe, who first pointed his 
 guns. 
 
 Has just scrawled on my body some pitiful 
 puns.* 
 
 * On the partially demolished bridge, hung several 
 placards bearing inscriptions of a humorous character, in 
 which the name of its life-long enemy, "the hatter," 
 figured largely. 
 
DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 59 
 
 There ! he's coming already, to stifle my 
 
 prayers ; 
 He's unscrewing my bolts, and removing my 
 
 stairs : 
 My life and my strength he is sapping away. 
 But I wont be abridged^ till I've finished my 
 
 say: 
 Though too humble and low to be storied in 
 
 verse, 
 I have strength enough yet, for a withering 
 curse. 
 
 Oh ! wretch without feelings though not with- 
 out felt, 
 
 Who hast killed me by pelting, yet livest by 
 pelt, 
 
 When Winter shall loosen the links of his 
 chain, 
 
 And the snow-covered pavements are flooded 
 with rain : 
 
6o DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 
 
 When the crossings are strangers to shovel 
 
 and brush, 
 And you wallow, knee-deep, in the mud and 
 
 the slush, 
 When drenched and bespattered by horses 
 
 and wheels. 
 Cold, weary and wet, you crawl home to your 
 
 meals, — 
 Oh, then, may the ponderous weight of my 
 
 wrath, 
 Prove a clog to your feet, and a snare to your 
 
 path ! 
 May you stumble and plunge in your 
 
 devious course. 
 Till your bosom is charged with the pangs 
 
 of remorse, 
 And a healthy resolve shall be wrought in 
 
 your brain, 
 That, if you are spared, YOU WILL BUILD 
 
 ME AGAIN. 
 
DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 6 1 
 
 Then, stately and grand, in proportion and 
 
 size, 
 My form, like the Phcenix, once more shall 
 
 arise ; 
 With '' all modern improvements," adorned 
 
 and perfected, 
 A second edition, revised and corrected. 
 
 December 17, 1868. 
 
OUR NEW FIRM: A BROAD-STREET 
 BALLAD. 
 
 Some tales of mythology 
 Need an apology, 
 
 For, they're of outrages full ! 
 But, as touching Europa — 
 Now, did she elope, or 
 
 Was she entrapped by the Bull ? 
 
 II. 
 
 There's a palpable mystery 
 Clouding this history. 
 
 As to the prominent agent 
 
OUR NEW FIRM : A BROAD STREET BALLAD. 63 
 
 And I'm tempted to swear, 
 'Twas a beast of a Bear, 
 
 Who played the first part in the pageant. 
 
 III. 
 
 True, in that legend olden. 
 We read of '' horns golden," 
 
 And ''hide that was white as the snow,' 
 And of " caper and antic," 
 That lent a romantic 
 
 Effect to the charms of her beau. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But, our friend Mr. Taurus 
 Is here set before us, 
 
 In such an improbable light. 
 
64 OUR NEW FIRM : 
 
 That Tm sure 'twas Sir Bruin, 
 That plotted her ruin, 
 
 And compassed her desperate plight. 
 
 Perhaps 'tis her fate 
 That's one cause of the hate 
 
 Which our ladies evince to the fetters, 
 That a greater brute — man — 
 Has attached — all he can, 
 
 To the moietv known as *' his betters." 
 
 VI. 
 
 In these days of Sorosis, 
 A metamorphosis 
 
 Appears, that's as odd, to the full 
 
A BROAD STREET BALLAD. 65 
 
 For, who knows, should he meet 
 Mrs. (Blank) on the street, 
 
 If, just now, she's a bear or a bull? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Well ! if ladies will amble 
 On hobbies, and gamble 
 
 In stocks, like the Broad Street '' elect,' 
 Let us trust that our brokers, 
 (Those pretty rough jokers). 
 
 Will treat them, at least, with respect. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 May our Bulls and our Bears, 
 In this venture, go shares ; 
 And, (whether as debtor or lender) 
 
66 OUR NEW FIRM: 
 
 Not forget that "our firm " 
 Is a delicate germ, 
 
 Which, when parsed, is of feminine gender ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Let the '' Medical Student," 
 (Who never was prudent, 
 
 When brass might ensure him eclat,) 
 Do his utmost to vex. 
 And to jeer at, " the sex," 
 
 With a '^ itoics avons chaiige cela'' 
 
 X. 
 
 I say, give them full swing ! 
 'Twere a capital thing. 
 
 If they'd get us " the rhino " — and, maybe, 
 
A BROAD STREET BALLAD. ^^ 
 
 The time will arrive, 
 
 When the '' creatures " who wive, 
 
 Can stay home and look after the baby ! 
 
 February 14, 1870. 
 
SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. 
 
 Sing a song of TariflF: prices are so high, 
 Everybody wants to sell, and nobody to buy ; 
 When the ports are opened, we'll all begin to sing ; 
 For Common Sense will govern us, and Cotton won't be 
 king. , 
 
 I. 
 
 Yes, indeed, 'pon my word, it is simply absurd, 
 
 This foolish and fierce agitation. 
 Which, by fits, now and then, some unprinci- 
 pled pen, 
 Wt/l excite, to embarrass our nation. 
 And, for what? Just because certain Revenue 
 laws. 
 
SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. 69 
 
 (To which zveve no sort of objection,) 
 Have kindled a fire of pestilent ire, 
 
 Which roars — at the name of Protection. 
 Then, sing fol-de-rol-lol, fol-de-rol-lol ; 
 Keep our rickety engine in motion ! 
 We are proud of each thump of her wheezy 
 old pump, 
 Drawing toll from the land and the ocean. 
 
 II. 
 
 Rich Dives may growl, and poor Lazarus howl. 
 
 When. they think of the cost of commodities. 
 
 Which, at quarter the score, on some alien 
 
 shore, 
 
 Would be viewed as the queerest of oddities; 
 
 But, while bold Captain Greeley, so loudly and 
 
 freely. 
 
70 SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. 
 
 Forbids us to yield to dejection, 
 We'll fling out our banner in orthodox manner, 
 And sing of the charms of protection. 
 Then, sing fol-de-rol-lol, etc. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sure, with all the restrictions and weary inflic- 
 tions. 
 Which good Madame Tariff imposes. 
 With her duties and taxes, we'll grind up our 
 axes, 
 While the rest may look out for their noses. 
 Let's keep everything dear ! — it will be very 
 queer. 
 If folks do not see the propriety, 
 Of lauding high prices, and saying " How 
 nice is 
 This tribute, we pay to society!" 
 
 Then, sing fol-de-rol-lol, etc. 
 
SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. /I 
 
 IV. 
 
 We don't want the people to climb up the 
 steeple, 
 And see, in the haze of the distance, 
 How cheaply and kindly, the seed, scattered 
 blindly, 
 Matures, without special assistance. 
 We don't want the notion of simple devotion 
 
 To labor, content with its '' penny," 
 To come, forcing its way (at least not in our 
 day), 
 And deranging the projects of many. 
 Then, sing fol-de-rol-lol, etc. 
 
 'Neath Monopoly's aegis, so vaunted by sages, 
 Who ought to know wisdom from folly. 
 
72 SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. 
 
 We'll be full of assurance and hopeful endur- 
 ance, 
 And, (while we grow rich,) we'll be jolly, 
 But, alas ! a prediction of cominj^ affliction, 
 
 Begins to intrude on our quiet ; 
 And, ere closes the season, perhaps we'll have 
 reason, 
 To judge if our stars will deny it. 
 
 But, sing fol-de-rol-lol, etc. 
 
 VI. 
 
 If Congress will, on-ly just ''let us alone," 
 We'll be happy, and strong, and defiant ; 
 And we'll laugh at each raid of this host of 
 Free Trade, 
 With its veteran chief, Mr. Biyant. 
 But, ah me! in that host, men who cling to 
 their '' Postr 
 
SONG OF iHE PROTECTIONIST. 73 
 
 (And who don't lack for courage or muscle) 
 Are about to unite, and to gird for the fight, 
 And zvho knows zvhat ivill come of the tussle ? 
 Yet, sing fol-de-rol-lol, fol-de-rol-lol ; 
 
 Keep our rickety engine in motion ! 
 We are proud of each thump of her wheezy 
 
 old pump, 
 Drawing toll from the land and the ocean. 
 
 January 24, 1870. 
 
THE -LOST CAUSE." 
 
 Vide Wade Hampton's J^eecJies. 
 
 I^AST night, as I was wandering home, 
 
 And musing on events to come, 
 
 Dimly, from out the ruddy glare 
 
 Of gaslight, shimmering through the air, 
 
 An image of a dusky hue, 
 
 Loomed slowly upward to my view. 
 
 With reeling step, it groped its way, 
 
 Till, 'neath a lamp-post's quivering ray, 
 
 I caught the letters C. S. A. 
 
 I saw the rusty suit of gray, 
 
 Which clothed a figure, tall and thin, 
 
 Most strongly redolent of gin ; 
 
 Fast clinging to the iron shaft, 
 
THE LOST CAUSE. 75 
 
 It coughed, and whined, and feebly laughed ; 
 And then, from faltering lips, '' there rung 
 These accents of" a tipsy tongue: — 
 " I say, my friend ! now just look here ! 
 Where can it be? 'tis very queer ! 
 But, though I've hunted o'er the Park, 
 And searched the city through till dark, 
 I cannot find the thing I've lost; 
 Though rivers, mountains I have crossed, 
 I've failed to get a single trace, 
 To guide me to its hiding-place. 
 Somehow 'tis gone, and, like Othello's 
 Or some of those old fighting fellows, 
 My ' occupation's ' with it fled. 
 And I might just as well be dead. 
 Say, can't you help me in my search ? 
 Don't leave a brother in the lurch." 
 
 " What hast thou lost, O grisly sprite, 
 
76 THE LOST CAUSE. 
 
 Strange, dubious phantom of the night ? 
 What vanished gem of priceless worth, 
 Dooms thee to wander thus on earth? 
 Describe the thing, and for the rest, 
 I'll gladly aid thee in thy quest." 
 
 " Why, look here, mister ! (the reply 
 Was clogged with many a maudlin sigh), 
 I've lost the Cause, the Cause (d'ye see?) 
 Worth more than aught beside to me ; 
 The noble Cause, which for long years, 
 Drenched all our land with blood and tears 
 The righteous Cause, whose naked truth 
 Was loudly preached by gallant Booth ; 
 The Cause whose fall, by Seymour s aid. 
 Though not averted, was delayed. 
 I, sir, am one of Seymour's ''friends ' / 
 We're working both for common ends ; 
 He's mighty smart, I don't deny, 
 
THE LOST CAUSE. 77 
 
 But what of that, sir ? so am I ! 
 
 I've strung up niggers by the score, 
 
 I've held the torch to house and store ; 
 
 I've lots of Yankee scalps, to show 
 
 My mode of dealing with a foe ; 
 
 I'm not a reconstructed flat. 
 
 No, sir ! you bet your life on that ! 
 
 But, somehow, things ain't looking bright ; 
 
 You see, they whipped us in the fight ; 
 
 And, though our brothers at the North, 
 
 Are putting all their muscle forth. 
 
 By choosing copper-headed men, 
 
 To set us on our legs again. 
 
 The masses, clearly, don't incline 
 
 To ' keep the ranks,' and ' toe the line/ 
 
 And stupid asses, such as Grant, 
 
 Seem just exactly what they want. 
 
 Our cause is lost ! The Southern heart 
 
 So often fired, has played its part ; 
 
78 THE LOST CAUSE. 
 
 And, sunk to dimness and decay, 
 The flame is smouldering fast away. 
 The Cause is lost ; but, wandering round, 
 I'm trying if it can't be found ; 
 I've sought to clear my failing sight, 
 By drinking cocktails day and night ; 
 I see all other objects double, 
 Except the object of my trouble. 
 Come, stranger, lend a helping hand ; 
 Aid me to search, or else to stand ; 
 For somehow things are spinning rounds- 
 Just here, he pitched upon the ground ; 
 A senseless mass, he reeled and sunk, 
 A case of " most decided drunk." 
 
 Spurning the creature as he lay, 
 With loathing soul, I turned away, 
 And thus in sad, yet grateful strain. 
 My thoughts resumed their track again : 
 
THE LOST CAUSE. 79 
 
 Yes, it is lost ! thank God, 'tis lost ! 
 Long was our stately vessel tossed, 
 With shattered planks and canvas rent. 
 Till the foul storm, at length, was spent. 
 Now justice to the iaithful few, 
 Who stood, unbribed, amid her crew. 
 Till willing hands could mount her deck. 
 And save her from the threatened wreck ; 
 Now, decent homage to the dead, 
 Who, for her rescue, starved and bled ; 
 Respect for men, whose forces gone, 
 With crippled limbs, still struggled on, — 
 Demand, that while o'er all the past, 
 A pardoning veil we freely cast, 
 This motto stand recorded yet : 
 '' Let us forgive, but not forget." 
 Let treason whine a doleful stave ; 
 Let Hampton's tears bedew its grave ; 
 We've buried it so fast and deep 
 
80 THE LOST CAUSE. 
 
 That noibome weeds shall never creep, 
 
 From out its festering decay, 
 
 To spread anew their baneful sway. 
 
 Thank God, 'tis lost ! that venomed chain 
 
 No hand shall ever forge again ! 
 
 And now, when baffled traitors try, 
 
 To make tJicir sJiaine a rallying cry, 
 
 When lips which, but a few years past, 
 
 Breathed fire and slaughter to the last 
 
 Ply all their eloquence and art. 
 
 To rouse some pity in the heart. 
 
 For the " Lost Cause," the " dear Lost Cause,' 
 
 Shall such stale tricks command applause? 
 
 Nay ! treat them as an empty jest, 
 
 Flung from the lips of one possessed ! 
 
 Let all true men esteerr. it shame, 
 
 To give. " the Cause " a milder name. 
 
 Than that which stamped it from the first, — 
 
 A loathsome thing, a Cause accursed, 
 
 September 15, 1868. 
 
A TALE OF A KITE. 
 
 A Buzzard once sat, where an Eagle had 
 perched — 
 
 (Chorus of hey-diddle-diddle) — 
 Foul was his plumage, and draggled and 
 
 smirched ; 
 And to those, who his queer antecedents had 
 searched, 
 How he ever got there, was a riddle. 
 Still, lie zvas tJiere^ 
 And his thorough-bred stare 
 At the orthodox, azure-veined lords of the air, 
 
82 A TALE OF A KITE. 
 
 Seemed to smack of " the purple ;" and, when 
 
 with a smile 
 And a brotherly kiss to the Queen of the Isle, 
 Whose " sun never sets," he had settled the 
 
 thing, 
 He talked like a Caesar, and felt like a king, 
 And never a monarch, and never a bird 
 Wore a haughtier crest than Napoleon Third. 
 
 IT. 
 
 But, alas for the Caesars ! they cannot keep 
 quiet, — 
 
 (Chorus of hey-diddle-diddle) — 
 When they've once had a taste of imperial diet, 
 They're sure to wax fat, and to kick up a riot, 
 With old Nick to play at the fiddle. 
 And 'twas really absurd 
 How this overgrown bird. 
 
A TALE OF A KITE. 83 
 
 This terrible glutton, Napoleon Third, 
 
 Took to coaxing and bullying, plotting and 
 
 lying. 
 While his dupes were a-groaning, and starving, 
 
 and dying; 
 He cared not a pin, so that he and his chick 
 Might have plenty of victims, to worry and 
 
 pick ; 
 ''Make Europe a graveyard, let Mexico howl, 
 So we feather our nest," quoth this truculent 
 
 fowl. 
 
 III. 
 
 Well ! at last, a fine opening was thrown in his 
 
 way — 
 
 (Chorus of hey-diddle-diddle) — 
 A Dove, with a crown, that had seen its best 
 
 day, ' 
 
84 A TALE OF A KITE. 
 
 And with feathers all ''soiled" and bespattered 
 with clay, 
 
 Though /// not abuse her, for aught that they 
 say, 
 fSince Truth often lies in the middle — 
 And we, all of us, know 
 That 'tis '' in medio 
 
 Tiitissiiniis ibis'' — a maxim worth quoting, 
 
 When talking of people, or driving or boating — 
 
 This Dove, (to return from our classic digres- 
 sion,) 
 
 Too weak for resistance, too proud for conces- 
 sion. 
 
 Was finally chased, and, w4th might and with 
 main, 
 
 Took her ultimate flight from the kingdom of 
 Spain. 
 
TALE OF A KITE. 85 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now, the Buzzard, who ruled o'er the fortunes 
 of France, 
 
 (Chorus — the same as before,) 
 Jumped as quick as a trout, as he scented the 
 
 chance, 
 And he marshalled his flocks, and prepared an 
 advance 
 On a nest, he had ^' spotted," of yore, 
 Where a grisly old fellow. 
 With plumes black and yellow, 
 A full-blooded Eagle, kept aquiline state, 
 By the side of an equally full-blooded mate. 
 With a shallow pretence, he manceuvred the 
 
 quarrel, 
 And he vowed that his conduct was righteous 
 and moral. 
 
86 A TALE OF A KITE. 
 
 For "the Eagle," said he, ''has an eye upon 
 
 Spain ; 
 I'll be switched if I stand it — there now, that 
 
 is plain." 
 
 V. 
 
 I suppose that, since Abel was clubbed by his 
 brother, 
 
 (Chorus — the same as before,) 
 And the phantom of Death came to quench, 
 
 and to smother 
 Mortality's lamp, there has ne'er been another, 
 Such banquet of carnage and gore. 
 For, with murderous rage. 
 Did the parties engage 
 In a pitiless struggle for power and life. 
 Unheeding the victims who gasped in the strife. 
 And the women and children left helpless, for- 
 lorn. 
 
A TALE OF A KITE. 8/ 
 
 Too weak to protest, and too abject to mourn. 
 '^ Now's the time to decide who's the ' cock of 
 
 the walk,' 
 'Tis with talons we'll argue — with blows we 
 
 will talk." 
 
 VI. 
 
 And the talons did argue with eloquence stern, 
 
 (Chorus — the same as before,) 
 Till the poor stricken Buzzard was driven to 
 
 learn 
 A lesson, though wholesome, yet likely to burn 
 
 Through the well-padded armor he wore. 
 And, at last, at Sedan, where he looks for a 
 
 chair 
 Supported by Poles, lo ! the Prussians are there ! 
 And they take his Sedan, and they carry him 
 
 off, ^ 
 
88 A TALE OF A KITE. 
 
 While the little birds chatter and gossip and 
 
 scoff. 
 'Tis a pretty hard lesson when once you've 
 
 been regal, 
 But a Buzzard, you see, shouldn't tackle an 
 
 Eagle ! 
 
 Moral 
 
 Hey-diddle-diddle ! Life's but a riddle ! 
 
 Guess it the best that you can ! 
 But if, weary with care, you must sit in a chair, 
 
 Beware how you choose a Sedan ! 
 That's your plan. 
 
 If you're really '' a sensible man." 
 
 September 5, 1870. 
 
GUI BONO? 
 
 (respectfully addressed to MRS. HARRIET 
 BEECHER STOWE.) 
 
 Well ! call it true !— that filthy tale, 
 
 Raked from the garbage of the Past, 
 Though Nature's self might well prevail, 
 
 To stamp it Falsehood, to the last. 
 Aye ! brand with foul and loathsome shame, 
 
 The Poet's memory, nor spare 
 The buried sister's spotless fame, 
 
 If but the wife's may show more fair. 
 
90 GUI BONO 
 
 II. 
 
 When all is done, and all is said, 
 
 And finished is the vampire-quest ; 
 When o'er the mute, defenceless dead. 
 
 The crushing load is firmly pressed ; 
 When dripping sword and venomed shaft. 
 
 Have hacked and pierced the helpless corse, 
 WJmt good will come ? — what wholesome 
 draught, 
 
 Can e'er distil from such a source ? 
 
 III. 
 
 A woman's hand has bared the steel ; 
 
 A woman's eye has aimed the dart ; 
 This damning charge, with pious zeal, 
 
 Was nurtured in a woman's heart. 
 
GUI BONO. 91 
 
 And what the pretext ? — what the need ? 
 
 Simply that one, who loved the Bard, 
 Hints that his gracious lady's creed, 
 
 Was somewhat narrow, cold, and hard. 
 
 IV. 
 
 No doubt, the work was wisely done ; 
 
 A righteous work — not over nice, 
 Nor decent ; — but 'twill make us shun 
 
 Those rhymes, that teach insidious vice : 
 In sooth, till now, we little knew 
 
 What shocking secrets lurk within. 
 Each glowing sketch the artist drew. 
 
 Each chronicle of monstrous sin. 
 
 V. 
 
 "What good?^' Why look! The Bard 'Ms 
 dead 
 And rotten." Well, he's had his day. 
 
92 GUI BONO. 
 
 None can disprove a zuord thaf s said. 
 So now we safely '' say our say." 
 
 Should carping critics dare pretend 
 
 That we are moved by worldly spleen, 
 
 At least 'twill serve sensation's end, 
 And advertise a magazine. 
 
 August 27, 18G9 
 
m,mmm 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A CER- 
 TAIN HOLIDAY-BOOK. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Stowe ! oh, Mrs. Stowe ! 
 How cou/d you let this volume go ? 
 Surely, your ladyship must know, 
 That doubtful tales of guilt and woe, 
 (When all the actors sleep below 
 The turf, where gentle daisies blow, 
 Careless, alike, of friend or foe, 
 Harmless, if y oil II but leave them so), 
 Don't help to teach morality. 
 
94 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Stowe ! oh, Mrs. Stowe ! 
 While England hangs the mistletoe. 
 And wassail reigns, and yule-trees glow, 
 And peace and mirth and kindness flow, 
 Her people's hearts will bitter grow. 
 That she, their honored guest — (ah, no ! 
 Not she ! — some other — tell it so /) 
 Has smirched their Phoenix to a crow. 
 Too black to mock reality. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Stowe ! oh, Mrs. Stowe ! 
 At the dread Court, to which we go, 
 Sure, it were time enough to know 
 
A CERTAIN HOLIDAY-BOOK. 95 
 
 The wanderings of a star, whose glow 
 Dazzled a world, while high and low 
 Felt loftier thoughts and feelings grow. 
 And, circled by its radiant bow. 
 Spurned at the lips that fain would show 
 Proofs of the Bard's depravity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Stowe I oh, Mrs. Stowe! 
 Would God that you had left it so ! 
 If, in your woman's breast, a show 
 Of pity mingled with the low, 
 Sad voice of Duty, well we know, 
 With quivering hand, you struck the blow 
 With tears, you bade this volume go. 
 Charged with its load of guilt and woe, 
 To sink— from laws of gravity. 
 DdcewSe/'Bl, 1809. 
 
MAGDALA. 
 
 AN ABYSSINIAN BALLAD. 
 
 Part I. Air: '' Lord Lovcir 
 
 King Theodore sat in his glory and might, 
 
 In jolly good spirits was he ; 
 He had just been enjoying the daintiest sight, 
 That an African monarch could see — see — ■ 
 see — 
 That an African monarch could see. 
 
 He was counting the heads of a bevy of wives, 
 
 Which were carelessly lying around ; 
 They were tied up, in bunches of fours and of 
 fives, 
 
MAGDALA. 97 
 
 And were scattered all over the ground- 
 ground — ground — 
 And were scattered all over the ground. 
 
 Then slowly and timidly, up to his side, 
 With a diffidence charming to see, 
 
 Crawled sweet Theodora, his very last bride. 
 And thus to her master said she— she— she- - 
 To her lord and her master said she : 
 
 " We are growing quite lonely, great Sovereign 
 ot all. 
 Our solitude's really a bore ; 
 For our sisters, around us, so rapidly fall, 
 That now, we count hardly a score — score — 
 score — 
 That now, we count hardly a score. 
 
 " Oh, fill up our numbers, by purchase or stealth. 
 Without any needless delay, 
 
98 MAGDALA. 
 
 And then, for your happiness, power and 
 health, 
 Your petitioners ever will pray — pray — 
 pray— 
 Your petitioners ever will pray." 
 
 King Theodore tossed off a skullful of gin, 
 
 And nodded assent with a smile. 
 For he thought of a widow, with '' oceans of 
 tin," 
 Who was Queen of a sweet little isle — isle 
 isle — 
 Who was Queen of a sweet little isle. 
 
 " 'Tis a capital notion," he shouted with glee, 
 
 *' I'll hurry and write her a letter; 
 It's true she can't boast of a long- pedigree^ 
 But 'twill answer, for want of a better — 
 etter — etter. 
 But 'twill answer, for want of a better." 
 
MAGDALA. 99 
 
 So the letter was filled with effusions of love, 
 
 Such as ardent young sons of the South, 
 Are wont to employ, in a jessamine grove, 
 When the heart rises up to the mouth — 
 mouth — mouth — 
 When the heart rises up to the mouth. 
 
 And the monarch sat quietly drinking his gin. 
 
 With a gentle occasional sigh. 
 And married four times (just to keep his hand 
 in), 
 While awaiting the precious reply — ply — 
 ply- 
 While awaiting the precious reply. 
 
lOO MAGDALA. 
 
 Part II. Air: '* Yoinig LocJiinvary 
 
 Oh, brave General Napier's come from the 
 
 North, 
 And has marshalled his troops, and is leading 
 
 them forth, 
 And, with camels and elephants, donkeys and 
 
 boys. 
 Is makine a terrible clatter and noise : 
 
 'Tis as Mars, not as Cupid, he visits the shore, 
 . he b 
 dore. 
 
 And he bears no love-token for King Theo- 
 
 With rockets and Armstrongs, and mortars 
 
 enough, 
 Torpedoes and muskets, and rifles and stuff; 
 With powder and caps, which were brought 
 
 by the ton, 
 This true British lion, and son of a gun, 
 
MAGDALA. lOI 
 
 Is bound to give vent to a thundering roar, 
 When he gets within hearing of King Theo- 
 dore. 
 
 With a flush on his cheek, and a resolute mien, 
 As he sternly recalls the affront to his Queen, 
 Each hardy foot soldier strides on at a pace. 
 Which is less like a march than a regular race. 
 He laughs at the foes he must grapple before, 
 He can come to close quarters with King 
 Theodore. 
 
 Besides, there are brothers who languish and 
 faint ; 
 
 There are sisters with children, whose inno- 
 cent plaint 
 
 Has pierced to the ears of the pitying throng, 
 
 With its burden of suffering, sorrow and 
 wrong ; 
 
I02 MAGDALA, 
 
 'Tis a weighty inducement to settle the score, 
 Which stands to the debit of King Theo- 
 dore. 
 
 At length, all the mountains and deserts are 
 
 past, 
 And Magdala's fortress is sighted at last, 
 And Napier cries in a confident tone, 
 '' That paltry possession shall soon be our own, 
 Or you safely may swear, that I battled and 
 
 fell, 
 In a cause which humanity glories to tell." 
 Things look rather doubtful, and scaly, and 
 
 sore, 
 For the peace of our hero, poor King 
 
 Theodore. 
 
 The captives are freed, and with eager delight, 
 They hail the glad welcome of sunshine and 
 light. 
 
MAGDALA. IO3 
 
 But the stubborn barbarian scorns to admit, 
 That he's met with a foe, who can rival his wit ; 
 So he fights to the last, and, when nothing 
 
 remains, 
 He fires a pistol right into his brains (?) 
 And a mass of brown clay that encumbers his 
 
 floor, 
 Is all that is left of the King Theodore. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 If you want to get married, don't venture too 
 
 high, 
 Nor fly in a rage at the lady's reply; 
 Don't meddle with foreigners, women or men. 
 And thrust them like calves in some horrid 
 
 old pen ; 
 
I04 MAGDALA. 
 
 That game is played out, and will answer no 
 
 more, 
 'Tis a moral that's left us by King Theodore. 
 
 April 30, 1868. 
 
 
LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO 
 
 CAPTAIN LAHRBUSH 
 
 ON THE ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTH ANNIVERSARY OP 
 HIS BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh, friend ! whose still unsliattered form, 
 
 A hundred years and four 
 Of Summer's sun and Winter's storm, 
 Have left with pulses, quick and warm, 
 
 As throbbed in days of yore ; 
 
I06 TO OUR CENTENARIAN. 
 
 II. 
 
 We greet thee with a sober joy ; 
 
 With earnest, solemn thought ; 
 With hope that each of us — a boy 
 Compared with thee — may well employ 
 
 The lesson thou hast taught. 
 
 III. 
 
 The record of thy stainless life, 
 Its ''passing strange " career ; 
 Its day of calm, its years of strife, 
 With stirring thought and action rife, 
 Demands a tribute here. 
 
 IV. 
 
 What thronging phantoms of the past, 
 What weird and shadowy band 
 
TO OUR CENTENARIAN. 10/ 
 
 Of armies crushed— of navies vast, 
 That reeled and sank before the blast, 
 Must rise at thy command ! 
 
 V. 
 
 What glowing pictures of the brain 
 
 Must crowd upon thy thought ! 
 Thrones that upheaved to fall again ; 
 Monarchs enforced to wear the chain. 
 
 Themselves had rashly wrought. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Foremost of all, a simple grave 
 
 In lone St. Helen's Isle, 
 Where thou, a soldier tried and brave. 
 Didst watch and list the sullen wave. 
 
 That ever moaned the while. 
 
I08 TO OUR CENTENARIAN. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Hushed is the turmoil , wind and tide 
 
 Have sped thee on thy way ; 
 Till, now, thy wandering bark doth ride 
 In sheltered haven, safe and wide, 
 That mocks the tempest's sway. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Strange, that the nation of thy choice, 
 
 To which her weary prow 
 Bore thee, a pilgrim, to rejoice. 
 Freeman at last, in heart and voice, 
 
 Has fcivcr years than thou ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Teach us that heritage to prize 
 Our fathers bled to win ; 
 
TO OUR CENTENARIAN. IO9 
 
 Teach us, like thee, v/ith trusting eyes, 
 To wait the orb, whose heahng rise 
 Shall purge the mists of sin. 
 
 Dear comrade, friend, and honored guest. 
 
 Relic of ages, past ; 
 While, round our board, with boyish zest. 
 We pass the wine-cup and the jest, 
 
 (Still mirthful to the last), 
 
 XI. 
 
 Smooth be life's pathway to thy feet, 
 
 And, distant far the year. 
 When such of us as live to meet. 
 Shall miss thy form, and fail to greet 
 
 Its welcome presence here ! 
 
 March 9, 1870. 
 
TO 
 
 CAPTAIN LAHRBUSH, 
 
 ON HIS ONE HUNDEED AND FIFTH ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Dear Captain ! pray excuse our noise 
 We're but a giddy lot of boys, 
 Who havn't quite forsworn the joys, 
 
 Of juvenile frivolity. 
 'Tis natural, that we should strive 
 To reach thy hundred years and five ; 
 And, so, we aim to keep alive. 
 
 By dint of mirth and jollity. 
 
TO THE SAME. Ill 
 
 II. 
 
 Another year has rolled along, 
 Since last we welcomed thee in song ; 
 Another year has swelled the throng, 
 
 That tells of Time's mortality ! 
 Yet, still unbroken, undefaced— 
 'Gainst ev'ry shock securely braced — 
 Thine image moves amid the waste, 
 
 A living, warm reality ! 
 
 III. 
 
 A year of mem'ries, dark and dread. 
 Which hang around the Gallic dead, 
 Who bravely fought and idly bled. 
 
 To glut a tyrant's vanity ! 
 A year, that smote Rome's triple crown 
 
112 TO THE SAME. 
 
 And hurled its shattered fragments down, 
 And made the terrors of her frown, 
 A jest to all humanity ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But, why prolong a strain severe, 
 
 In musing o'er the buried year. 
 
 Since now we're met, to greet thee here 
 
 With toast and fun and pleasantry? 
 Some other day, we'll cogitate 
 On solemn points of Church and State, 
 And settle, in our grave debate, 
 
 The rights of Prince and Peasantry. 
 
 V. 
 
 Just now, we want, in grateful rhyme. 
 To render thanks to Father Time, 
 
TO THE SAME. 113 
 
 Who spares thee, in thy wintry prime, 
 
 A landmark for posterity ! 
 Convinced, that when we've run our race, 
 And other boys are in our place, 
 They, too, shall read upon thy face 
 
 No sign of his severity. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And, should our General * renew 
 
 His welcome call for a Review, 
 
 May we (whose years must seem so few 
 
 When matched with thy maturity), 
 Be here, as now, to grasp thy hand. 
 Proud, at thy side, again to stand — 
 A body-guard, at thy command — 
 A pledge for thy security ! 
 Marcli 9,1871. 
 
 * Gsn. J. Watts de Peyster, tlie liost of tlie occasion. 
 
JUNE TENTH, 1870. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 I. 
 
 There's a crowd of troubled faces at the cor- 
 ner of the street, 
 
 Where the brief and hasty bulletin is scrawled 
 upon the sheet, 
 
 With a terrible distinctness, that arrests the 
 busy feet. 
 
 Of thousands moving on. 
 
 II. 
 
 It came stealing o'er the wire, with a slow and 
 sullen spark,^ 
 
 * Charles Dickens died on the 9tli of June, 1870. The 
 announcement of his death was delayed, for several hours, 
 owing to a derangement of the telegraphic communication, 
 
IN MEMORIAM. Il5 
 
 Like a storm-cloud that is brooding, when the 
 
 sky is grim and dark, 
 And the fatal bolt is lurking, to engulf the 
 
 gallant bark. 
 
 Which still goes moving on. 
 
 III. 
 
 And the men, who feel the burden of a new 
 and heavy woe, 
 
 Get them sadly to their dwellings, with reluc- 
 tant step and slow. 
 
 For they're thinking of the tidings that shall 
 startle like a blow, 
 
 While they keep moving on. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Dead— thoughtless— senseless— silent ! No, it 
 cannot be ! the brain, 
 
Il6 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Which has wrought so long and deftly, must 
 
 be animate again 
 With its constant, tender sympathy for every 
 
 brother's pain. 
 
 It umst keep moving on ! 
 
 Why, the man was our great teacher in the 
 battle-school of life ! 
 
 He has shown us how to struggle, how to con- 
 quer in a strife, 
 
 Which, for every son of Adam, is with deadly 
 peril rife, 
 
 As Time goes moving on. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Who shall lift the fallen sceptre ? Who shall 
 grasp the wand of might ? 
 
IN MEMORIAM. II7 
 
 Who shall conjure up new phantoms, to allure 
 
 us or affright, 
 From the realms of joyous sunshine, from the 
 
 shades of grisly night, 
 
 And keep them moving on? 
 
 VII. 
 
 God doeth all things wisely ! — and we know 'tis 
 
 for the best. 
 That the loving heart is pulseless and the 
 
 weary brain at rest. 
 They have gained an immortality in every 
 
 human breast — 
 
 They II still keep moving on ! 
 
 June 10. 1870. 
 
THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. 
 
 Not a cry >vas heard, as *he good ship went down."- 
 
 Testimony of Captain's Clerk, Mr. W. W. Crowninshield. 
 
 Not a cry was heard, as the ship went down ! 
 
 There they stood — every man at his post ! 
 What, to them, was the pitiless frown 
 
 Of the demon of darkness, that wrings us 
 most, 
 As we think of a death, in the gloom of night, 
 With the shuddering stars for our only light, 
 And know that, unmarked by human eye, 
 We shall wrestle alone with our agony ? 
 
THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. IIQ 
 
 II. 
 
 There they stood— every man at his post ! 
 
 Over the waters securely rode 
 The bloodless monster, whose flippant boast 
 
 Was a blasphemous challenge to man and 
 God. 
 " I've sunk a d — d Yankee — and serve her 
 right !" 
 
 Such was the burden of the song, 
 Which the British sailor, in coward flight, 
 
 Sang, as he bowled on his way along. 
 
 III. 
 
 There they stood — every man at his post ! 
 
 Veteran Captain and beardless youth — 
 Each, in that hour, himself a host. 
 
 Clad in the armor of Duty and Truth. 
 
I20 THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. 
 
 There they stood, as the ship went down, 
 Reehng and plunging to meet her doom, 
 
 Gilding our annals with fresh renown, 
 
 Plucked from the jaws of their yawnin< 
 tomb. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There they stood — every man at his post ! 
 
 Brothers and countrymen, pause and mark ! 
 Is it enough that, with speech and toast. 
 
 We pledge to their memory? Cold and 
 stark. 
 They are floating now, if the ravenous maw 
 
 Of the grim sea-tiger, has left them a chance 
 To be washed to the bounds of a distant 
 shore, 
 
 By the heaving billov/s' slow advance. 
 
THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. 121 
 
 V. 
 
 There they stood — every man at his post ! 
 
 Here zve sit, and, at even-tide 
 Talk, now and then, of the ship that was lost, 
 And the ''poor, faithful fellows" who sank 
 and died. 
 Is it enough ? Do we lack for a stone, 
 
 Whose sculptured record might tell their 
 tale 
 To future ages, when we are gone. 
 
 And the star of the Present is dim and 
 pale? 
 
 . VI. 
 
 Let not the brand of a selfish race — 
 
 Of a people absorbed in the lust of gold — 
 
 Spread to the world, as a foul disgrace. 
 
 That the heart of our nation is dead and 
 cold. - 
 
122 THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. 
 
 Here is a lesson, which we, who teach 
 
 The darling children that climb our knees, 
 
 May add to the list of the texts, that preach 
 The noblest and purest of homilies ! 
 
 April 22, 1870. 
 
THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 " And He said, ' Draw not nigli liitlier : put off thy shoes 
 from tliy feet ; for tlie place wliereon thou standest is holy 
 ground.' " 
 
 " And God said unto Moses, 'I AM THAT I AM:' and 
 He said, ' Thus cshalt thou say unto the children of Israel, 
 I AM hath sent me unto you.' "—Exodus in. 5 and 14. 
 
 Halt, my Soul ! arrest thy footsteps — tread 
 
 not thus on holy ground ! 
 Where thou standest, build thine Altar — 
 
 there, in suppliance, be found ! 
 Put aside thy way-worn sandals — bare thy 
 
 feet in nakedness : 
 Chant thine Old Year's miserere, while its 
 
 lengthening shadows press. 
 
124 THOUGHTS ON NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Lo, the great " I AM " hath spoken ! Horeb's 
 
 mount, with shuddering awe, 
 Trembled at that dread announcement, clothed 
 
 with Majesty and Law, 
 When, from bush that, unconsuming, blazed — 
 
 a miracle of flame — 
 To His chosen prophet-leader, first Jehovah 
 
 breathed His name. 
 
 III. 
 
 ''I AM THAT I AM!" Oh, Maker, mighty 
 
 Sovereign, Source of all ! 
 Not from lips of human weakness, words like 
 
 these should idly fall ; 
 Not by us, the worms, the creatures, whom 
 
 Thy matchless skill hath wrought. 
 Lightly should that name be uttered, or that 
 
 solemn truth be taught. 
 
THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 1 25 
 
 IV. 
 
 "I am that I am!" The worldlmg, nursing 
 
 many a secret sin, 
 Echoes it with loud bravado, covering anxious 
 
 doubts within. 
 ''I am tJiat I am— no better — what I am is 
 
 God's decree ! " 
 Blasphemy befits the coward, clutching at 
 
 that empty plea ! 
 
 V. 
 
 What am /, whose very being, fraught with 
 
 mystery and pain. 
 Fills me with a dumb amazement, puzzling 
 
 weary heart and brain ? 
 
126 THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 Wherefore live I, move I onward, one amidst 
 
 a motley throng, 
 Hurried by a tireless current, sweeping good 
 
 and bad alone? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Life is brief! but, swiftly gliding, rolling on 
 with glowing wheels. 
 
 Time seems long to many a victim, trampled 
 by its coursers' heels : 
 
 Long, to reach the goal that shineth, pure and 
 white, in spotless bloom ; 
 
 Long, between the bounds that sever cradle- 
 couch and quiet tomb. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet the old, old Truth abideth ! — balm for 
 every wounded breast — 
 
THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 12/ 
 
 " He who loveth most his neighbor, loveth 
 wisest, loveth best !" 
 
 Charity, with moveless finger, points the way 
 to realms, above ; 
 
 Points the straight and narrow pathway, radi- 
 ant with the light of Love. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then, O Soul ! in grave communion with the 
 lingering, dying year. 
 
 Put away thy tattered vesture— robe thyself 
 in holy fear — 
 
 Strive to win the " wedding-garment," washed 
 from every human stain. 
 
 Passport to that better country, where unceas- 
 ing glories reign. 
 
ANNUS IR^. 
 I. 
 There's a stain of blood in the wintry sky — 
 There's a scent of blood in the freezing 
 air — 
 The hollow blast goes moaning by, 
 
 Sick with its burden of despair. 
 For the leash has been slipped from the dogs 
 
 of war, 
 And their muzzles are red with human gore ; 
 And, fast by the couch of the dying year, 
 Gather the phantoms of Woe and Fear. 
 
 II. 
 
 Who is to blame, that a world so fair 
 
 Writhes in the throes of a monster-birth ? 
 
ANNUS IR.E. 129 
 
 Who is to blame, that a crimson glare 
 
 Mocks at the gloom of a shuddering earth ? 
 PV/io is to blame ? Ah me ! I wot, 
 Saxon or Gaul, i^ 7natters not. 
 Never was lacking to Adam's seed, 
 A glib excuse for a selfish deed. 
 
 III. 
 
 Year, that hast trodden a bloody path, 
 
 Flaunting thy banner of empty pride ! 
 Year, that hast crushed, in thy frenzied wrath. 
 
 Legions of victims who fought and died ! 
 Dark is thy record to eyes that mourn. 
 
 Hateful thy name to the widowed breast, 
 Draining its milk for the nursling, born 
 
 'Mid the horrors, that hung on thine awful 
 crest ! 
 
130 ANNUS IR^. 
 
 IV. 
 
 God still relgneth ! and we who wait, 
 
 Weary with vigil, but not disnnayed, 
 Beat at the bars of the crystal gate, 
 
 Hoping and trusting in Mercy's aid ; 
 Hoping to welcome the sway of Peace, 
 
 Trusting the promise of days to come, 
 When the angry blare of the trump shall 
 cease. 
 
 And the Vv'ail of the perishing ranks be 
 dumb. 
 
 NeiD Tear's Eve, 1870. 
 
PARIS. 
 
 A " LAMENTATION." 
 
 Faster and fiercer, an iron hail 
 Hurtles out of the brooding sky ! 
 
 Languishing, famishing, ghastly pale, 
 
 Stripped of her glittering vest of mail. 
 How doth the beautiful city lie ! 
 
 Hushed is the revel — the dance is o'er — 
 
 Laughter and singing are heard no more— - 
 
 Only the cry of a wild despair. 
 
 Rings through the mirk of the startled air. 
 
132 PARIS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Lover and friend, who are put away — 
 
 Ye who have basked in her sunny smile- 
 Is it naught to you that a wrathful day, 
 Terrible — grim — with its pallid ray, 
 
 Glares on her nakedness the while ? 
 Grant she was proud in her day of might — 
 Grant she was wanton, and vain, and light- 
 Still, in the depths of that wayward breast, 
 Angels of mercy were wont to rest. 
 
 III. 
 
 Weak is the strength of the human heart — 
 Subtle the sway of the tempter's power — 
 Queen of the cities, she played her part, 
 Mistress of fashion, and science, and art. 
 Pouring her vv^ealth in a ceaseless shower. 
 
PARIS. 133 
 
 Hives, for the stores of the busy mind — 
 Homes for the homeless — the halt — the blind — 
 These were her jewels — each a gem, 
 Worthy a Satrap's diadem. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Staggering, reeling before the foe, 
 
 Who can regard her with tearless eye? 
 
 Who can look on at the savage blow, 
 
 Crushing her, grinding her down so low, 
 Wagging his head as he passes by ? 
 
 Famine and sword, ye may do your worst ! 
 
 For when clouds have gathered, the storm 
 must burst — 
 
 But, frail are the links of your iron chain. 
 
 And th€ wing, ye would fetter, shall soar again ! 
 
 January 28, ISTi. 
 
TO INEZ. 
 
 My heart was like Bethesda's pool ; 
 
 Calmly its waters slept ; 
 Around their edge — a loathsome crowd — 
 
 Foul thoughts and passions crept. 
 Disease and sin lay waiting there, 
 
 To hail the promised balm, 
 Which, heaven-descending, should impart, 
 
 Its precious, healing charm. 
 
 Thine angel-form approached the pool ; 
 
 The sluggish waves were stirred, 
 The accents of thy gentle voice, 
 
 The startled waters heard. 
 
TO INEZ. ^35 
 
 And, one by one, each child of sm, 
 
 That reached that wondrous tide- 
 Each unclean offspring of disease- 
 Washed and was purified. 
 
 Stay, dearest, stay ! Oh, make thy home, 
 
 Within this longing breast ! 
 No more will, then, its troubled waves 
 
 Subside to slothful rest ; 
 But, heaving with resistless power, 
 
 And, widening in their sway. 
 Before their might, shall foul disease 
 
 And sin be swept away. 
 
TO 
 
 A SHATTERED wreck on a weary sea, 
 
 Hopless and aimless, I drifted on — 
 Present and future alike to me — 
 
 For joy Avas extinguished, and faith was 
 gone I 
 Round me, and o'er me, with angry frown, 
 
 Hovered the clouds of a mournful past ; 
 Thicker, their shadows kept crawling down — 
 
 Darker, the veil of their Hoom was cast ! 
 
 II. 
 
 A light broke out of the sullen sky — 
 A gentle ripple the waters stirred — 
 
TO ■ 137 
 
 And a beautiful bark came gliding by, 
 Fair as the form of an ocean-bird. 
 
 Once again, with a sudden thriU, 
 
 I felt the heave of the bounding wave : 
 
 Once again, did my pulses fill 
 
 With the life and the rapture thy presence 
 
 III. 
 
 Side by side, through a sunny day, 
 
 Sailed we together— then came the night ! 
 Sleepless, I watched for the morrow's ray- 
 Gone was the phantom that mocked my 
 sight ! 
 Vision of happiness ! vision of grace ! 
 
 Why dids't thou waken a slumbering breast ? 
 Better for me, if thine angel-face, 
 
 Never had troubled my slothful rest ! 
 
MOTTO FOR BRANDT'S PICTURE OF 
 ''RESIGNATION." 
 
 The night is past, and joyous day 
 
 Salutes the rising sun ; 
 Homeward the mourner wends her way, 
 With hngering step, and lips that pray 
 
 " Father, thy will be done ! " 
 
 Within her breast, a holy calm 
 
 Has, with the day, begun ; 
 No anxious doubt, no fear of harm, 
 While clinging to His sheltering arm, 
 Who spake : " Thy will be done !" 
 
THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON.^ 
 
 I. 
 
 Steadily, grimly, o'er the waters, 
 
 Moves a veteran fleet : 
 Steadily, grimly, steering southward, 
 
 Strangest doom to meet ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Laden dov/n to their very gunwales — 
 Groaning 'neath their freight — 
 
 Food for sport to the mocking billows ; 
 Ministers of Fate I 
 
 " The name given to the fleet of superannuated, stone- 
 laden whalers, employed for the obstruction of Charleston 
 harbor. 
 
I40 THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON. 
 
 in. 
 
 Side by side, like a band of brothers, 
 
 Knit by a common vow, 
 Steadily, grimly, to its haven, 
 
 Points each weary prow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 All, from main-truck down to kelson, 
 
 Seamed with ghastly scars : — 
 Canvas sere and straining cordage — 
 Rotting planks and spars. 
 
 V. 
 
 Racked by thousand fierce encounters- 
 Worn by tempest-shocks — 
 
 Crippled by the raging billows. 
 Treacherous shoals and rocks. 
 
THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON. H^ 
 
 VI. 
 
 Many a year, among the icebergs, 
 By the wild Northern Hght, 
 
 They have chased the ocean-monsters, 
 In their desperate flight. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Fierce pursuit and boisterous triumph- 
 Swift their glad return- 
 Echoing shouts announce the headland, 
 Where the watchfires burn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Burdened, now, with many winters- 
 Shattered wrecks of Time- 
 Mightier service shall they render, 
 Than in proudest prime. 
 
142 THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Damming up a venomed fountain — 
 
 Hemming Treason in : — 
 Forcing back its loathsome current, 
 
 Foul and black with sin. 
 
 X. 
 
 Teaching wide the bitter lesson, 
 (Wholesome, though 'tis late,) 
 
 ^' Rebel hordes and noxious vermin, 
 Find a common fate !" 
 
 XI. 
 
 O'er them, now, shall roll the billows 
 Once they proudly rode — 
 
 Sea-birds shriek to see them reeling, 
 Plunging with their load. 
 
THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON. 
 
 143 
 
 XII. 
 
 Steadily, grimly, o'er the waters 
 Vengeance wings their flight : 
 
 He, who shaped our Nation's future, 
 Guides their course aright ! 
 1862. 
 
"WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF 
 IT!" 
 
 — Capt. Cuttle. 
 
 I. 
 
 Close to your heart, in the journey of hfe, 
 Safe, 'mid the issues that vary the strife, 
 Fail not to carry a scroll, to record 
 Such flickering joys as its moments afford. 
 If, through the wild storm and the rage of the 
 
 fight. 
 The flame of true Friendship burn steadily 
 
 bright, 
 Then cherish the remnant of Faith that is 
 
 left, 
 
WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF IT. I45 
 
 And, though of all else you are shorn and 
 bereft, 
 '' When found, make a note of it !" 
 
 II. 
 
 When slander and malice have vented their 
 
 worst. 
 And o'er you the vials of Hatred have burst ; 
 When the foes that have worried and snarled, 
 
 at their will. 
 Have reaped their reward, and lie sated and 
 
 still ; 
 When, bleeding and faint, yet erect to the 
 
 last, 
 You stand face to face with the pitiless past ; 
 Then faithfully, earnestly strive to discern 
 The lesson your Father has meant you should 
 
 learn : 
 " When found, make a note of it !" 
 
146 WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF IT. 
 
 III. 
 
 And oh ! when temptation is plying its wiles, 
 And you feel the warm glow of its treacherous 
 
 smiles, 
 When the sky is all black, but the earth is 
 
 still bright, 
 And you yearn for a share of its gladness and 
 
 light ; 
 Then kneel in your bitterness, weary and 
 
 lone, 
 And pray that some voice, with a comforting 
 
 tone, 
 May strengthen your soul, and endow you 
 
 with force, 
 To "fight a good fight," and to '^finish your 
 
 course." 
 " When found, make a note of it !" 
 
WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF IT. I47 
 
 IV. 
 
 Be patient and strong ! in this Drama of ours, 
 Are parts which demand varied talents and 
 
 powers : 
 But the best, e'en the humblest of players can 
 
 fill, 
 For they need no rehearsal, and challenge no 
 
 skill : ' 
 There are tears you can dry— there are lives 
 
 you can bless — 
 There are burdens to lighten and wrongs to 
 
 redress ; 
 Then, dwell not in selfish repining and wrath, 
 But, with Charity's lamp, seek the clew to 
 
 your path : 
 " When found, make a note of it !" 
 
148 WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF IT. 
 
 And, when falls the curtain that closes the 
 
 play, 
 And the world-wearied actor is passing away, 
 May the Scribe who records all the dealings oi 
 
 men. 
 Ere he seals up the volume and lays down the 
 
 pen, 
 If, amid your sad record, his pity can see 
 One act or intent, which may serve as a plea 
 For mercy or pardon, to urge at the Court, 
 Where your case must be tried, and your 
 
 future be wrought, 
 " When found, make a note of it !" 
 
 THE END. 
 
V ■/■■■f