Black Beetles in Amber

Your wrath for that—as dogs the louder howl
  With only moonshine to incite their rage,
And bears with more ferocious menace growl,
  Even when their food is flung into the cage.
Reform, your Honor, and forbear to curse us.
Lest all men, hearing you, cry: 'Ecce ursus!'

AD MOODIUM

Tut! Moody, do not try to show
  To gentlemen and ladies
That if they have not 'Faith,' they'll go
    Headlong to Hades.
Faith is belief; and how can I
  Have that by being willing?
This dime I cannot, though I try,
    Believe a shilling.
Perhaps you can. If so, pray do—
  Believe you own it, also.
But what seems evidence to you
    I may not call so.
Heaven knows I'd like the Faith to think
  This little vessel's contents
Are liquid gold. I see 'tis ink
    For writing nonsense.
Minds prone to Faith, however, may
  Come now and then to sorrow:
They put their trust in truth to-day,
    In lies to-morrow.
No doubt the happiness is great
  To think as one would wish to;
But not to swallow every bait,
    As certain fish do.
To think a snake a cord, I hope,
  Would bolden and delight me;
But some day I might think a rope
    Would chase and bite me.
'Curst Reason! Faith forever blest!'
  You're crying all the season.
Well, who decides that Faith is best?
    Why, Mr. Reason.
He's right or wrong; he answers you
  According to your folly,
And says what you have taught him to,
    Like any polly.

AN EPITAPH

Hangman's hands laid in this tomb an
  Imp of Satan's getting, whom an
Ancient legend says that woman
  Never bore—he owed his birth
  To Sin herself. From Hell to Earth
  She brought the brat in secret state
  And laid him at the Golden gate,
And they named him Henry Vrooman.
  While with mortals here he stayed,
  His father frequently he played.
Raised his birth-place and in other
Playful ways begot his mother.

A SPADE

[The spade that was used to turn the first sod in the construction of the Central Pacific Railroad is to be exhibited at the New Orleans Exposition.

Press Telegram

Precursor of our woes, historic spade,
What dismal records burn upon thy blade!
On thee I see the maculating stains
Of passengers' commingled blood and brains.
In this red rust a widow's curse appears,
And here an orphan tarnished thee with tears.
Upon thy handle sanguinary bands
Reveal the clutching of thine owner's hands
When first he wielded thee with vigor brave
To cut a sod and dig a people's grave—
(For they who are debauched are dead and ought,
In God's name, to be hid from sight and thought.)
Within thee, as within a magic glass,