Attorney Knight, it happens so sometimes That lawyers, justifying cut-throats' crimes For hire--calumniating, too, for gold, The dead, dumb victims cruelly unsouled-- Speak, through the press, to a tribunal far More honorable than their Honors are,-- A court that sits not with assenting smile While living rogues dead gentleman revile,-- A court where scoundrel ethics of your trade Confuse no judgment and no cheating aid,-- The Court of Honest Souls, where you in vain May plead your right to falsify for gain, Sternly reminded if a man engage To serve assassins for the liar's wage, His mouth with vilifying falsehoods crammed, He's twice detestable and doubly damned!
Attorney Knight, defending Powell, you, To earn your fee, so energetic grew (So like a hound, the pride of all the pack, Clapping your nose upon the dead man's track To run his faults to earth--at least proclaim At vacant holes the overtaken game) That men who marked you nourishing the tongue, And saw your arms so vigorously swung, All marveled how so light a breeze could stir So great a windmill to so great a whirr!
Little they knew, or surely they had grinned, The mill was laboring to raise the wind.
Ralph Smith a "shoulder-striker"! God, O hear This hardy man's description of thy dear Dead child, the gentlest soul, save only One, E'er born in any land beneath the sun.
All silent benefactions still he wrought: High deed and gracious speech and noble thought, Kept all thy law, and, seeking still the right, Upon his blameless breast received the light.
"Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints," he cried Whose wrath was deep as his comparison wide-- Milton, thy servant. Nay, thy will be done: To smite or spare--to me it all is one.
Can vengeance bring my sorrow to an end, Or justice give me back my buried friend?
But if some Milton vainly now implore, And Powell prosper as he did before, Yet 'twere too much that, making no ado, Thy saints be slaughtered and be slandered too.
So, Lord, make Knight his weapon keep in sheath, 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, And join their modest train.
Await the work of William Stow And be surprised again.
THE SUBDUED EDITOR