It burneth on his face; God send that when we come to die We know that sign of grace! Upon his lips his blessed sprite Poiseth 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 be A postmaster above!' For him no monumental arch, But, O, 'tis good and brave To see the Grand Old Party march To office o'er his grave!
THE DEATH OF GRANT.
Father! whose hard and cruel law Is part of thy compassion's plan, Thy works presumptuously we scan For what the prophets say they saw. Unbidden still the awful slope Walling us in we climb to gain Assurance of the shining plain That faith has certified to hope. In vain!—beyond the circling hill The shadow and the cloud abide. Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide To trust the Record and be still. To trust it loyally as he Who, 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 deed Too simply wise, too humbly great. The cannon syllabled his name; His shadow shifted o'er the land, Portentous, as at his command Successive cities sprang to flame! He fringed the continent with fire, The rivers ran in lines of light! Thy will be done on earth—if right Or wrong he cared not to inquire. His was the heavy hand, and his The service of the despot blade; His the soft answer that allayed War's giant animosities. Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, Fill, Father, with another light, That we may see with clearer sight Thy servant's soul in Paradise.
THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED.
Of Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) The Muse of History records That he'd get drunk as twenty lords. He'd get so truly drunk that men Stood by to marvel at him when His slow advance along the street Was but a vain cycloidal feat. And when 'twas fated that he fall With a wide geographical sprawl, They signified assent by sounds Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds. And yet this Mr. Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes When it was red or otherwise. All malt, or spirituous, tope He loathed as cats dissent from soap; And cider, if it touched his lip, Evoked a groan at every sip. But still, as heretofore explained, He not infrequently was grained. (I'm not of those who call it 'corned.' Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.) Though truth to say, and that's but right, Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!) Was what had put him in the mud, The only kind he used was blood! Alas, that an immortal soul Addicted to the flowing bowl,
