Shapes of Clay

A 'BORN LEADER OF MEN.'

    Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh
      Is a statesman of world-wide fame,
    With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh
      To glorify somebody's name—
  Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters
  To succor the country from divers disasters
      Portentous to Mr. Mahosh.
    Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee
      Is in the political swim.
    He cares not a button for men, not he:
      Great principles captivate him—
  Principles cleverly cut out and fitted
  To Percy's capacity, duly submitted,
      And fought for by Mr. Cabee.
    Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse
      Holds office the most of his life.
    For men nor for principles cares he a curse,
      But much for his neighbor's wife.
  The Ship of State leaks, but he doesn't pump any,
  Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company
      Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse.

TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE.

  O Liberty, God-gifted—
    Young and immortal maid—
  In your high hand uplifted;
    The torch declares your trade.
  Its crimson menace, flaming
    Upon the sea and shore,
  Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming
    That Law shall be no more.
  Austere incendiary,
    We're blinking in the light;
  Where is your customary
    Grenade of dynamite?
  Where are your staves and switches
    For men of gentle birth?
  Your mask and dirk for riches?
    Your chains for wit and worth?
  Perhaps, you've brought the halters
    You used in the old days,
  When round religion's altars
    You stabled Cromwell's bays?
  Behind you, unsuspected,
    Have you the axe, fair wench,
  Wherewith you once collected
    A poll-tax from the French?
  America salutes you—
    Preparing to disgorge.
  Take everything that suits you,
    And marry Henry George.
1894

AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS.

  Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year.
  One place it never comes, and that is here.
  Here, in these pages no good wishes spring,
  No well-worn greetings tediously ring—
  For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore:
  The hollower they are they ring the more.
  Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade,
  Nor mistletoe my solitude invade,
  No trinket-laden vegetable come,
  No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum.
  No shrilling children shall their voices rear.
  Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer!
  No presents, if you please—I know too well
  What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell
  (I know not if he did) yet might have told
  Of present-giving in the days of old,
  When Early Man with gifts propitiated
  The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated,
  Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude
  Advantage from the taker's gratitude.
  Since thus the Gift its origin derives
  (How much of its first character survives