above the crowd. 
    His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,
    As the pike’s armor flashes in the stream. 
    He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
    The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. 
    “Why strikest not?  Perform thy murderous act,”
    The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.)
    “Friend, I have struck,” the artist straight replied;
    “Wait but one moment, and yourself decide.” 
    He held his snuff-box,—­“Now then, if you please!”
    The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze,
    Off his head tumbled,—­bowled along the floor,—­
    Bounced down the steps;—­the prisoner said no more!

    Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye;
    If death lurks in it, oh, how sweet to die! 
    Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head;
    We die with love, and never dream we’re dead!

The prologue went off very well, as I hear.  No alterations were suggested by the lady to whom it was sent, for as far as I know.  Sometimes people criticize the poems one sends them, and suggest all sorts of improvements.  Who was that silly body that wanted Burns to alter “Scots wha hae,” so as to lengthen the last line, thus?—­

    “Edward!”.  Chains and slavery!

Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration.  I understood that it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly.  It seems the president of the day was what is called a “teetotaller.”  I received a note from him in the following words, containing the copy subjoined, with the emendations annexed to it: 

“Dear Sir,—­Your poem gives good satisfaction to the committee.  The sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those generally entertained by this community.  I have therefore consulted the clergyman of this place, who has made some slight changes, which he thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions of the poem.  Please to inform me of your charge for said poem.  Our means are limited, etc., etc., etc.

“Yours with respect.”

HERE IT IS,—­WITH THE SLIGHT ALTERATIONS!

Come! fill a fresh bumper,—­for why should we go

logwood
While the nectar still reddens our cups as they flow?

decoction
Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun,

dye-stuff
Till o’er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run.

half-ripened apples
The purple-globed-clusters their life-dews have bled;

taste sugar of lead
How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed!

rank poisons wines!!!
For summer’s last roses lie hid in the wines

stable-boys smoking long-nines. 
That were garnered by maidens who laughed through the vines.