Black Beetles in Amber

Or do Thou wrest it from between his teeth!

UNARMED

Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate,
When Stephen M. White arrived in state.
'Admit me.' 'With pleasure,' Peter said,
Pleased to observe that the man was dead;
'That's what I'm here for. Kindly show
Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.'
White stared in blank surprise. Said he
'I run this place—just turn that key.'
'Yes?' said the Saint; and Stephen heard
With pain the inflection of that word.
But, mastering his emotion, he
Remarked: 'My friend, you're too d—— free;
'I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!'
And, 'Yes?' the guardian said, with quite
The self-same irritating stress
Distinguishing his former yes.
And still demurely as a mouse
He twirled the key to that Upper House.
Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain
Admittance to those halls to gain,
Said, neighborly: 'Pray tell me. Pete,
Does any one contest my seat?'
The Saint replied: 'Nay, nay, not so;
But you voted always wrong below:
'Whate'er the question, clear and high
You're voice rang: 'I,' 'I,' ever 'I.''
Now indignation fired the heart
Of that insulted immortal part.
'Die, wretch!' he cried, with blanching lip,
And made a motion to his hip,
With purpose murderous and hearty,
To draw the Democratic party!
He felt his fingers vainly slide
Upon his unappareled hide
(The dead arise from their 'silent tents'
But not their late habiliments)
Then wailed—the briefest of his speeches:
'I've left it in my other breeches!'

A POLITICAL VIOLET

Come, Stanford, let us sit at ease
  And talk as old friends do.
You talk of anything you please,
  And I will talk of you.
You recently have said, I hear,
  That you would like to go
To serve as Senator. That's queer!
  Have you told William Stow?
Once when the Legislature said:
  'Go, Stanford, and be great!'
You lifted up your Jovian head
  And everlooked the State.
As one made leisurely awake,
  You lightly rubbed your eyes
And answered: 'Thank you—please to make
  A note of my surprise.
'But who are they who skulk aside,
  As to get out of reach,
And in their clothing strive to hide
  Three thousand dollars each?
'Not members of your body, sure?
  No, that can hardly be:
All statesmen, I suppose, are pure.
  What! there are rogues? Dear me!'
You added, you'll recall, that though
  You were surprised and pained,
You thought, upon the whole, you'd go,
  And in that mind remained.
Now, what so great a change has wrought
  That you so frankly speak
Of 'seeking' honors once unsought
  Because you 'scorned to seek'?
Do you not fear the grave reproof
  In good Creed Haymond's eye?
Will Stephen Gage not stand aloof
  And pass you coldly by?
O, fear you not that Vrooman's lich
  Will rise from earth and point
At you a scornful finger which
  May lack, perchance, a joint?
Go, Stanford, where the violets grow,