Shapes of Clay

  Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud.
  I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried,
  'Montefiore!' with the rest, and vied
    In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er
  To want and worth had charity denied.
  So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan
  He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan
    A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads,
  And in a moment was a lonely man!

A WARNING.

  Cried Age to Youth: 'Abate your speed!—
  The distance hither's brief indeed.'
  But Youth pressed on without delay—
  The shout had reached but half the way.

DISCRETION.

SHE:
  I'm told that men have sometimes got
    Too confidential, and
  Have said to one another what
    They—well, you understand.
  I hope I don't offend you, sweet,
  But are you sure that you're discreet?
HE:
  'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine
    Their conquests do recall,
  But none can truly say that mine
    Are known to him at all.
  I never, never talk you o'er—
  In truth, I never get the floor.

AN EXILE.

  'Tis the census enumerator
    A-singing all forlorn:
  It's ho! for the tall potater,
    And ho! for the clustered corn.
  The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine
  Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine.
  'Some there must be to till the soil
    And the widow's weeds keep down.
  I wasn't cut out for rural toil
    But they won't let me live in town!
  They 're not so many by two or three,
    As they think, but ah! they 're too many for me.'
  Thus the census man, bowed down with care,
    Warbled his wood-note high.
  There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair,
    But he had no blood in his eye.

THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT.

  Baffled he stands upon the track—
  The automatic switches clack.
  Where'er he turns his solemn eyes
  The interlocking signals rise.
  The trains, before his visage pale,
  Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail.
  No splinter-spitted victim he
  Hears uttering the note high C.
  In sorrow deep he hangs his head,
  A-weary—would that he were dead.
  Now suddenly his spirits rise—
  A great thought kindles in his eyes.
  Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare,
  Splendors the path of his despair.
  His genius shines, the clouds roll back—
  'I'll place obstructions on the track!'