acclamation all the people Decreed whose was our century's best fame; Then scaffolded the statue like a steeple, To make the likeness; and the name was sunk Deep in the pedestal's metallic trunk. Whose was it? Gentle reader, pray excuse The seeming rudeness, but I can't consent to Be so forehanded with important news. 'Twas neither yours nor mine—let that content you. If not, the name I must surrender, which, Upon a dead man's word, was George K. Fitch!
AN ART CRITIC
Ira P. Rankin, you've a nasal name—
I'll sound it through "the speaking-trump of fame,"
And wondering nations, hearing from afar
The brazen twang of its resounding jar,
Shall say: "These bards are an uncommon class—
They blow their noses with a tube of brass!"
Rankin! ye gods! if Influenza pick
Our names at christening, and such names stick,
Let's all be born when summer suns withstand
Her prevalence and chase her from the land,
And healing breezes generously help
To shield from death each ailing human whelp!
"What's in a name?" There's much at least in yours
That the pained ear unwillingly endures,
And much to make the suffering soul, I fear,
Envy the lesser anguish of the ear.
So you object to Cytherea! Do,
The picture was not painted, sir, for you!
Your mind to gratify and taste address, The masking dove had been a dove the less. Provincial censor! all untaught in art, With mind indecent and indecent heart, Do you not know—nay, why should I explain? Instruction, argument alike were vain— I'll show you reasons when you show me brain.
THE SPIRIT OF A SPONGE
I dreamed one night that Stephen Massett died,
And for admission up at Heaven applied.
"Who are you?" asked St. Peter. Massett said:
"Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville." Peter bowed his head,
Opened the gates and said: "I'm glad to know you,
And wish we'd something better, sir, to show you."
"Don't mention it," said Stephen, looking bland,
And was about to enter, hat in hand,
When from a cloud below such fumes arose
As tickled tenderly his conscious nose.
He paused, replaced his hat upon his head,
Turned back and to the saintly warden said,
O'er his already sprouting wings: "I swear
I smell some broiling going on down there!"
So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell,
Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.
ORNITHANTHROPOS
"Let John P. Irish rise!" the edict rang
As when Creation into being sprang!
Nature, not clearly understanding, tried
To make a bird that on the air could ride.
But naught could baffle the creative plan—
Despite her efforts 'twas almost a man.
Yet he had risen—to the bird a twin—
Had she but fixed a wing upon his chin.
TO E.S. SALOMON
Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly against
decorating the graves of Confederate dead.
What! Salomon! such words from you,
Who call yourself a soldier? Well,
The Southern brother where he fell
Slept all your base oration through.
Alike to him—he cannot know
Your praise or blame: as little harm
Your tongue can do him as your arm
A quarter-century ago.
The brave respect the brave. The brave
Respect the dead; but you—you draw That ancient blade, the ass's jaw, And shake it o'er a hero's grave. Are you not he who makes to-day A merchandise of old renown Which he persuades this easy town He won in battle far away? Nay, those the fallen who revile Have ne'er before the living stood And stoutly made their battle good And greeted danger with a smile. What if the dead whom still you hate Were wrong? Are you so surely right? We know the issue of the fight— The sword is but an advocate. Men live and die, and other men Arise with knowledges diverse: What seemed a blessing seems a curse, And Now is still at odds with Then. The years go on, the old comes back To mock the new—beneath the sun. Is nothing new; ideas run Recurrent in an endless track. What most we censure, men as wise Have reverently practiced; nor Will future wisdom fail to war On principles we dearly prize. We do not know—we can but deem, And he is loyalest and best Who takes the light full on his breast And follows it throughout the dream. The broken light, the shadows wide— Behold the battle-field displayed! God save the vanquished from the blade, The victor from the victor's pride! If, Salomon, the blessed dew That falls upon the Blue and Gray Is powerless to wash away The sin of differing from you.
Remember how the flood of years
Has rolled across the erring slain;
Remember, too, the cleansing rain
Of widows' and of orphans' tears.
The dead are dead—let that atone:
And though with equal hand we strew
The blooms on saint and sinner too,
Yet God will know to choose his own.
The wretch, whate'er his life and lot,
Who does not love the harmless dead
With all his heart and all his head—
May God forgive him—I shall not. When, Salomon, you come to quaff The Darker Cup with meeker face, I, loving you at last, shall trace Upon your tomb this epitaph: "Draw near, ye generous and brave— Kneel round this monument and weep: It covers one who tried to keep A flower from a dead man's grave."
DENNIS KEARNEY
Your