And that although, as well I ought to know,
The lips of laughter have a skull behind them.
Yet when I think we may be on the brink
Of having Freedom's banner to dispose of,
All crimson-hued, because the Nation would
Insist on cutting its own precious nose off,
I feel indeed as if we rather need
A sermon such as preachers tie a text on. If Freedom dies because a ballot lies,
She earns her grave; 'tis time to call the sexton !
But if a fight can make the matter right,
Here are we, classmates, thirty men of mettle;
We're strong and tough, we've lived nigh long enough-
What if the Nation gave it us to settle?
The tale would read like that illustrious deed
When Curtius took the leap the gap that filled in,
Thus: "Fivescore years good friends, as it appears,
At last this people split on Hayes and Tilden.
"One half cried, 'See! the choice is S. J. T. !'
And one half swore as stoutly it was t'other;
Both drew the knife to save the Nation's life
By wholesale vivisection of each other.
"Then rose in mass that monumental Class,—
'Hold! hold!' they cried, 'give us, give us the daggers!' 'Content! content!' exclaimed with one consent The gaunt ex-rebels and the carpet-baggers.
"Fifteen each side, the combatants divide,
So nicely balanced are their predilections;
And first of all a tear-drop each lets fall,
A tribute to their obsolete affections.
"Man facing man, the sanguine strife began,
Jack, Jim and Joe against Tom, Dick and Harry,
Each several pair its own account to square,
Till both were down or one stood solitary.
"And the great fight raged furious all the night
Till every integer was made a fraction;
Reader, wouldst know what history has to show
As net result of the above transaction?
"Whole coat-tails, four; stray fragments, several score;
A heap of spectacles; a deaf man's trumpet;
Six lawyers' briefs; seven pocket-handkerchiefs;
Twelve canes wherewith the owners used to stump it;
"Odd rubber-shoes; old gloves of different hues ;
Tax-bills,-unpaid,—and several empty purses;
And saved from harm by some protecting charm,
A printed page with Smith's immortal verses;
"Trifles that claim no very special name,-
Some useful, others chiefly ornamental;
Pins, buttons, rings, and other trivial things,
With various wrecks, capillary and dental.
"Also, one flag,-'twas nothing but a rag,
And what device it bore it little matters;
Red, white, and blue, but rent all through and through,
'Union for ever' torn to shreds and tatters.
"They fought so well not one was left to tell
Which got the largest share of cuts and slashes ;
When heroes meet, both sides are bound to beat;
They telescoped like cars in railroad smashes.
"So the great split that baffled human wit
And might have cost the lives of twenty millions,
As all may see that know the rule of three,
Was settled just as well by these civilians.
"As well.
Just so. Not worse, not better. No,
Next morning found the Nation still divided;
Since all were slain, the inference is plain
They left the point they fought for undecided."
If not quite true, as I have told it you,
This tale of mutual extermination,
To minds perplexed with threats of what comes next,
Perhaps may furnish food for contemplation.
To cut men's throats to help them count their votes
Is asinine-nay, worse-ascidian folly;
Blindness like that would scare the mole and bat,
And make the liveliest monkey melancholy.
I say once more, as I have said before,
If voting for our Tildens and our Hayeses
Means only fight, then, Liberty, good night!
Pack up your ballot-box and go to blazes !
Unfurl your blood-red flags, you murderous hags,
You pétroleuses of Paris, fierce and foamy ;
We'll sell our stock in Plymouth's blasted rock,
Pull up our stakes and migrate to Dahomey!
Opening the Window.
THUS I lift the sash, so long
Shut against the flight of song;
All too late for vain excuse,-
Lo, my captive rhymes are
loose!
Rhymes that, flitting through
Beat against my window-pane,
Some with gaily coloured wings,
Some, alas! with venomed stings.
Shall they bask in sunny rays? Shall they feed on sugared praise?
Shall they stick with tangled
On the critic's poisoned sheet?
Are the outside winds too rough?
Is the world not wide enough?
Go, my winged verse, and try,-
Go, like Uncle Toby's fly!
Songs when joyous friends have
met,
Songs the mourner's tears have
wet.
See the banquet's dead bouquet,
Fair and fragrant in its day;
Do they read the selfsame
lines,-
He that fasts and he that dines?
Year by year, like milestones placed,
Mark the record Friendship
traced.
Prisoned in the walls of time
Life has notched itself in rhyme:
As its seasons slid along,
Every year a notch of song,
From the June of long ago,
When the rose Was full in
blow,
Till the scarlet sage has come
And the cold chrysanthemum.
Read, but not to praise or blame, | Would I just this once comAre not all our hearts the ply?
So they teased and teased till I
(Be the truth at once confessed)
Wavered-yielded-did my best.
Turn my pages,- never mind
If you like not all you find;
Think not all the grains are gold
Sacramento's sand-banks hold.
Every kernel has its shell,
Every chime its harshest bell,
Every face its weariest look,
Every shelf its emptiest book,
Every field its leanest sheaf,
Every book its dullest leaf,
Every leaf its weakest line,-
Shall it not be so with mine?
Best for worst shall make
amends,
Find us, keep us, leave us
Till, perchance, we meet again. Benedicite.-Amen!
Asthrough the forest, disarrayed | Thy slender voice with rippling
By chill November, late I strayed,
A lonely minstrel of the wood
Was singing to the solitude:
I loved thy music, thus I said,
When o'er thy perch the leaves
were spread;
Sweet was thy song, but sweeter
Thy carol on the leafless bough. Sing, little bird! thy note shall cheer
The sadness of the dying year.
When violets pranked the turf with blue And morning filled their cups with dew,
The budding April bowers would fill,
Nor passed its joyous tones away When April rounded into May: Thy life shall hail no second dawn,
Sing, little bird! the spring is gone.
And I remember-well-a-day!— Thy full-blown summer roundelay,
As when behind a broidered
Some holy maiden sings un
With answering notes the wood- | From driven herds the clouds
And every tree-top found a
Are like the smoke of sacrifice; Erelong the frozen sod shall mock The ploughshare, changed to stubborn rock,
The brawling streams shall soon be dumb,
Sing, little bird! the frosts have come.
GRANDMOTHER'S mother: her | Such is the tale the lady old,
|