SIRES AND SONS.

Wild wanton Luxury lays waste the land With difficulty tilled by Thrift's hard hand!

Then dies the State!--and, in its carca.s.s found, The millionaires, all maggot-like, abound.

Alas! was it for this that Warren died, And Arnold sold himself to t' other side, Stark piled at Bennington his British dead, And Gates at Camden, Lee at Monmouth, fled?-- For this that Perry did the foeman fleece, And Hull surrender to preserve the peace?

Degenerate countrymen, renounce, I pray, The slothful ease, the luxury, the gay And gallant trappings of this idle life, And be more fit for one another's wife.

A CHALLENGE.

A bull imprisoned in a stall Broke boldly the confining wall, And found himself, when out of bounds, Within a washerwoman's grounds.

Where, hanging on a line to dry, A crimson skirt inflamed his eye.

With bellowings that woke the dead, He bent his formidable head, With pointed horns and gnarly forehead; Then, planting firm his shoulders horrid, Began, with rage made half insane, To paw the arid earth amain, Flinging the dust upon his flanks In desolating clouds and banks, The while his eyes' uneasy white Betrayed his doubt what foe the bright Red tent concealed, perchance, from sight.

The garment, which, all undismayed, Had never paled a single shade, Now found a tongue--a dangling sock, Left carelessly inside the smock: "I must insist, my gracious liege, That you'll be pleased to raise the siege: My colors I will never strike.

I know your s.e.x--you're all alike.

Some small experience I've had-- You're not the first I've driven mad."

TWO SHOWS.

The showman (blessing in a thousand shapes!) Parades a "School of Educated Apes!"

Small education's needed, I opine, Or native wit, to make a monkey shine; The brute exhibited has naught to do But ape the larger apes who come to view-- The hoodlum with his horrible grimace, Long upper lip and furtive, shuffling pace, Significant reminders of the time When hunters, not policemen, made him climb; The lady loafer with her draggling "trail,"

That free translation of an ancient tail; The sand-lot quadrumane in hairy suit, Whose heels are thumbs perverted by the boot; The painted actress throwing down the gage To elder artists of the sylvan stage, Proving that in the time of Noah's flood Two ape-skins held her whole profession's blood; The critic waiting, like a hungry pup, To write the school--perhaps to eat it--up, As chance or luck occasion may reveal To earn a dollar or maraud a meal.

To view the school of apes these creatures go, Unconscious that themselves are half the show.

These, if the simian his course but trim To copy them as they have copied him, Will call him "educated." Of a verity There's much to learn by study of posterity.

A POET'S HOPE.

'Twas a weary-looking mortal, and he wandered near the portal Of the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead.

He was pale and worn exceeding and his manner was unheeding, As if it could not matter what he did nor what he said.

"Sacred stranger"--I addressed him with a reverence befitting The austere, unintermitting, dread solemnity he wore; 'Tis the custom, too, prevailing in that vicinage when hailing One who possibly may be a person lately "gone before"--

"Sacred stranger, much I ponder on your evident dejection, But my carefulest reflection leaves the riddle still unread.

How do you yourself explain your dismal tendency to wander By the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead?"

Then that solemn person, pausing in the march that he was making, Roused himself as if awaking, fixed his dull and stony eye On my countenance and, slowly, like a priest devout and holy, Chanted in a mournful monotone the following reply:

"O my brother, do not fear it; I'm no disembodied spirit-- I am Lampton, the Slang Poet, with a price upon my head.

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 compa.s.sion 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 b.l.o.o.d.y bit of work.

"In short," said he, "in every weather We've soldiered, you and I, together."

The sentry would not let him pa.s.s.

"Go back," he growled, "you tiresome a.s.s-- 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 mora.s.ses.

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 prost.i.tute my strength and lurk About the country doing work-- These hands to labor I'll devote, Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!"