I am watching by this portal for some late lamented mortal To arise in his disquietude and leave his earthy bed. 'Then I hope to take possession and pull in the earth above me And, renouncing my profession, ne'er be heard of any more. For there's not a soul to love me and no living thing respects me, Which so painfully affects me that I fain would 'go before.'' Then I felt a deep compassion for the gentleman's dejection, For privation of affection would refrigerate a frog. So I said: 'If nothing human, and if neither man nor woman Can appreciate the fashion of your merit—buy a dog.'
THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL.
When Man and Woman had been made, All but the disposition, The Devil to the workshop strayed, And somehow gained admission. The Master rested from his work, For this was on a Sunday, The man was snoring like a Turk, Content to wait till Monday. 'Too bad!' the Woman cried; 'Oh, why, Does slumber not benumb me? A disposition! Oh, I die To know if 'twill become me!' The Adversary said: 'No doubt 'Twill be extremely fine, ma'am, Though sure 'tis long to be without— I beg to lend you mine, ma'am.' The Devil's disposition when She'd got, of course she wore it, For she'd no disposition then, Nor now has, to restore it.
TWO ROGUES.
Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost, The sentry occupied his post, To all the stirrings of the night Alert of ear and sharp of sight. A sudden something—sight or sound, About, above, or underground, He knew not what, nor where—ensued, Thrilling the sleeping solitude. The soldier cried: 'Halt! Who goes there?' The answer came: 'Death—in the air.' 'Advance, Death—give the countersign, Or perish if you cross that line!' To change his tone Death thought it wise— Reminded him they 'd been allies Against the Russ, the Frank, the Turk, In many a bloody bit of work. 'In short,' said he, 'in every weather We've soldiered, you and I, together.' The sentry would not let him pass. 'Go back,' he growled, 'you tiresome ass— Go back and rest till the next war, Nor kill by methods all abhor: Miasma, famine, filth and vice, With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice, Foul food, foul water, and foul gases, Rank exhalations from morasses. If you employ such low allies This business you will vulgarize. Renouncing then the field of fame To wallow in a waste of shame, I'll prostitute my strength and lurk About the country doing work— These hands to labor I'll devote, Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!'
BEECHER.
So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too— Great as a giant organ is, whose reeds Hold in them all the souls of all the creeds That man has ever taught and never knew. When on this mighty instrument He laid His hand Who fashioned it, our common moan Was suppliant in its thundering. The tone Grew more vivacious when the Devil played.
