"One half cried, 'See! the choice is S. J. T.!'

And one half swore as stoutly it was t' other; Both drew the knife to save the Nation's life By wholesale vivisection of each other.

"Then rose in ma.s.s that monumental Cla.s.s,-- 'Hold! hold!' they cried, 'give us, give us the daggers!'

'Content! content!' exclaimed with one consent The gaunt ex-rebels and the carpet-baggers.

"Fifteen each side, the combatants divide, So nicely balanced are their predilections; And first of all a tear-drop each lets fall, A tribute to their obsolete affections.

"Man facing man, the sanguine strife began, Jack, Jim and Joe against Tom, d.i.c.k and Harry, Each several pair its own account to square, Till both were down or one stood solitary.

"And the great fight raged furious all the night Till every integer was made a fraction; Reader, wouldst know what history has to show As net result of the above transaction?

"Whole coat-tails, four; stray fragments, several score; A heap of spectacles; a deaf man's trumpet; Six lawyers' briefs; seven pocket-handkerchiefs; Twelve canes wherewith the owners used to stump it;

"Odd rubber-shoes; old gloves of different hues; Tax--bills,--unpaid,--and several empty purses; And, saved from harm by some protecting charm, A printed page with Smith's immortal verses;

"Trifles that claim no very special name,-- Some useful, others chiefly ornamental; Pins, b.u.t.tons, rings, and other trivial things, With various wrecks, capillary and dental.

"Also, one flag,--'t was nothing but a rag, And what device it bore it little matters; Red, white, and blue, but rent all through and through, 'Union forever' torn to shreds and tatters.

"They fought so well not one was left to tell Which got the largest share of cuts and slashes; When heroes meet, both sides are bound to beat; They telescoped like cars in railroad smashes.

"So the great split that baffled human wit And might have cost the lives of twenty millions, As all may see that know the rule of three, Was settled just as well by these civilians.

"As well. Just so. Not worse, not better. No, Next morning found the Nation still divided; Since all were slain, the inference is plain They left the point they fought for undecided."

If not quite true, as I have told it you, This tale of mutual extermination, To minds perplexed with threats of what comes next, Perhaps may furnish food for contemplation.

To cut men's throats to help them count their votes Is asinine--nay, worse--ascidian folly; Blindness like that would scare the mole and bat, And make the liveliest monkey melancholy.

I say once more, as I have said before, If voting for our Tildens and our Hayeses Means only fight, then, Liberty, good night!

Pack up your ballot-box and go to blazes.

Unfurl your blood-red flags, you murderous hags, You petroleuses of Paris, fierce and foamy; We'll sell our stock in Plymouth's blasted rock, Pull up our stakes and migrate to Dahomey!

THE LAST SURVIVOR

1878

YES! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, going fast, And the thought comes strangely o'er me, who will live to be the last?

When the twentieth century's sunbeams climb the far-off eastern hill, With his ninety winters burdened, will he greet the morning still?

Will he stand with Harvard's nurslings when they hear their mother's call And the old and young are gathered in the many alcoved hall?

Will he answer to the summons when they range themselves in line And the young mustachioed marshal calls out "Cla.s.s of '29 "?

Methinks I see the column as its lengthened ranks appear In the sunshine of the morrow of the nineteen hundredth year; Through the yard 't is creeping, winding, by the walls of dusky red,-- What shape is that which totters at the long procession's head?

Who knows this ancient graduate of fourscore years and ten,-- What place he held, what name he bore among the sons of men?

So speeds the curious question; its answer travels slow; "'T is the last of sixty cla.s.smates of seventy years ago."

His figure shows but dimly, his face I scarce can see,-- There's something that reminds me,--it looks like--is it he?

He? Who? No voice may whisper what wrinkled brow shall claim The wreath of stars that circles our last survivor's name.

Will he be some veteran minstrel, left to pipe in feeble rhyme All the stories and the glories of our gay and golden time?

Or some quiet, voiceless brother in whose lonely,loving breast Fond memory broods in silence, like a dove upon her nest?

Will it be some old Emeritus, who taught so long ago The boys that heard him lecture have heads as white as snow?

Or a pious, painful preacher, holding forth from year to year Till his colleague got a colleague whom the young folks flocked to hear?

Will it be a rich old merchant in a square-tied white cravat, Or select-man of a village in a pre-historic hat?

Will his dwelling be a mansion in a marble-fronted row, Or a homestead by a hillside where the huckleberries grow?

I can see our one survivor, sitting lonely by himself,-- All his college text-books round him, ranged in order on their shelf; There are cla.s.sic "interliners" filled with learning's choicest pith, Each _c.u.m notis variorum, quas recensuit doctus_ Smith;

Physics, metaphysics, logic, mathematics--all the lot Every wisdom--crammed octavo he has mastered and forgot, With the ghosts of dead professors standing guard beside them all; And the room is fall of shadows which their lettered backs recall.

How the past spreads out in vision with its far receding train, Like a long embroidered arras in the chambers of the brain, From opening manhood's morning when first we learned to grieve To the fond regretful moments of our sorrow-saddened eve!

What early shadows darkened our idle summer's joy When death s.n.a.t.c.hed roughly from us that lovely bright-eyed boy!

The years move swiftly onwards; the deadly shafts fall fast,-- Till all have dropped around him--lo, there he stands,--the last!

Their faces flit before him, some rosy-hued and fair, Some strong in iron manhood, some worn with toil and care; Their smiles no more shall greet him on cheeks with pleasure flushed!

The friendly hands are folded, the pleasant voices hushed!

My picture sets me dreaming; alas! and can it be Those two familiar faces we never more may see?

In every entering footfall I think them drawing near, With every door that opens I say, "At last they 're here!"

The willow bends unbroken when angry tempests blow, The stately oak is levelled and all its strength laid low; So fell that tower of manhood, undaunted, patient, strong, White with the gathering snowflakes, who faced the storm so long.

And he,--what subtle phrases their varying light must blend To paint as each remembers our many-featured friend!

His wit a flash auroral that laughed in every look, His talk a sunbeam broken on the ripples of a brook,

Or, fed from thousand sources, a fountain's glittering jet, Or careless handfuls scattered of diamond sparks unset; Ah, sketch him, paint him, mould him in every shape you will, He was himself--the only--the one unpictured still!

Farewell! our skies are darkened and--yet the stars will shine, We 'll close our ranks together and still fall into line Till one is left, one only, to mourn for all the rest; And Heaven bequeath their memories to him who loves us best!

THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS

A MODERNIZED VERSION

1879