everywhere!
You shall hear her at your back,
And, your hunted visage turning,
Fancy that her eyes are burning
Like a tiger’s on your track!
You shall hear her in the breeze
Whispering to summer trees.
You shall hear her calling, calling
To your spirit through the storm
When the giant billows form
And the splintered lightning, falling
Down the heights of Heaven, appalling,
Splendors all the tossing seas!
On your bed at night reclining,
Stars into your chamber shining
As they roll around the Pole,
None their purposes divining,
Shall appear to search your soul,
And to gild the mark of Cain
That burns into your tortured brain!
And the dead man’s eyes shall ever
Meet your own wherever you,
Desperate, shall turn you to,
And you shall escape them never!
By your heritage of guilt;
By the blood that you have spilt;
By the Law that you have broken;
By the terrible red token
That you bear upon your brow;
By the awful sentence spoken
And irrevocable vow
Which consigns you to a living
Death and to the unforgiving
Furies who avenge your crime
Through the periods of time;
By that dread eternal doom
Hinted in your future’s gloom,
As the flames infernal tell
Of their power and perfection
In their wavering reflection
On the battlements of Hell;
By the mercy you denied,
I condemn your guilty soul
In your body to abide,
Like a serpent in a hole!
The Sunset Gun
Off Santa Cruz the western wave
Was crimson as with blood:
The sun was sinking to his grave
Beneath that angry flood.
Sir Walter Turnbull, brave and stout,
Then shouted, “Ho! lads; run—
The powder and the wad bring out
To fire the sunset gun.
“That punctual orb did ne’er omit
To keep, by land or sea,
Its every engagement; it
Shall never wait for me.”
Behold the black-mouthed cannon stand,
Ready with charge and prime,
The lanyard in the gunner’s hand.
Sir Walter waits the time.
The glowing orb sinks in the sea,
And clouds of steam aspire,
Then fade, and the horizon’s free.
Sir Walter thunders: “Fire!”
The gunner pulls—the lanyard parts
And not a sound ensues.
The beating of ten thousand hearts
Was heard at Santa Cruz!
Off Santa Cruz the western wave
Was crimson as with blood;
The sun, with visage stern and grave,
Came back from out the flood.
The Viduate Dame
’Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe,
And she goeth upon the spree,
And red are cheeks of the bystanders
For her acts are light and free.
In a seven-ounce costume
The widow of Thomas Blythe,
Y-perched high on the window ledge,
The difficult can-can tryeth.
Ten constables they essay
To bate the dame’s halloing.
With the widow of Thomas Blythe
Their hands are overflowing.
And they cry: “Call the National Guard
To quell this parlous muss—
For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe
Are upon the spree and us!”
O long shall the eerie tale be told
By that posse’s surviving tithe;
And with tears bedewed he’ll sing this rude
Ballàd of the widow of Thomas Blythe.
Four of a Kind
Robert F. Morrow
Dear man! although a stranger and a foe
To soft affection’s humanizing glow;
Although untaught how manly hearts may throb
With more desires than the desire to rob;
Although as void of tenderness as wit,
And owning nothing soft but Maurice Schmitt;
Although polluted, shunned and in disgrace,
You fill me with a passion to embrace!
Attentive to your look, your smile, your beck,
I watch and wait to fall upon your neck.
Lord of my love, and idol of my hope,
You are my Valentine, and I’m
A Rope.
Alfred Clarke, Jr.
Illustrious son of an illustrious sire—
Entrusted with the duty to cry “Fire!”
And call the engines out, exert your power
With care. When, looking from your lofty tower,
You see a ruddy light on every wall,
Pause for a moment ere you sound the call:
It may be from a fire, it may be, too,
From good men’s blushes when they think of you.
Judge Rutledge
Sultan of Stupids! with enough of brains
To go indoors in all uncommon rains,
But not enough to stay there when the storm
Is past. When all the world is dry and warm,
In irking comfort, lamentably gay,
Keeping the evil tenor of your way,
You walk abroad, sweet, beautiful and smug,
And Justice hears you with her wonted shrug,
Lifts her broad bandage half-an-inch and keeps
One eye upon you while the other weeps.
W. H. L. Barnes
Happy the man who sin’s proverbial wage
Receives on the instalment plan—in age.
For him the bulldog pistol’s honest bark
Has naught of terror in its blunt remark.
He looks with calmness on the gleaming steel—
If e’er it touched his heart he did not feel:
Superior hardness turned its point away,
Though urged by fond affinity to stay;
His bloodless veins ignored the futile stroke,
And moral mildew kept the cut in cloak.
Happy the man, I say, to whom the wage
Of sin has been commuted into age.
Yet not quite happy—hark, that horrid cry!—
His cruel mirror wounds him in the eye!
Reconciliation
Stanford and Huntington, so long at outs,
Kissed and made up. If you have any doubts
Dismiss them, for I saw them do it, man;
And then—why, then I clutched my purse and ran.
A Vision of Climate
I dreamed that I was poor and ill and sad,
Broken in hope and weary of my life;
My ventures all miscarrying—naught had
For all my labor in the heat and strife.
And in my heart some certain thoughts were rife
Of an unsummoned exit. As I lay
Considering my bitter state, I cried:
“Alas! that hither I did ever stray.
Better in some fair country to have died
Than live in such a land, where Fortune never
(Unless one be successful) crowns Endeavor.”
Then, even as I lamented, lo! there came
A troop of Presences—I knew not whence
Nor what they were: thought cannot rightly name
What’s known through spiritual evidence,
Reported not by gross material sense.
“Why come ye here?” I seemed to cry (though naught
My sleeping tongue did utter) to the first—
“What are ye?—with what woeful message fraught?
Ye have a ghastly look, as ye had burst
Some sepulcher in memory. Weird creatures,
I’m sure I’d know you if ye had but features.”
Some subtle organ noted the reply
(Inaudible to ear of flesh the tone):
“The Finest Climate in the World am I,
