RELIGIOUS PROGRESS.

  Every religion is important.  When men rise above existing
  conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better
  than the old one.—­Professor Howison.

  Professor dear, I think it queer
    That all these good religions
  (’Twixt you and me, some two or three
    Are schemes for plucking pigeons)—­

  I mean ’tis strange that every change
    Our poor minds to unfetter
  Entails a new religion—­true
    As t’ other one, and better.

  From each in turn the truth we learn,
    That wood or flesh or spirit
  May justly boast it rules the roast
    Until we cease to fear it.

  Nay, once upon a time long gone
    Man worshipped Cat and Lizard: 
  His God he’d find in any kind
    Of beast, from a to izzard.

  When risen above his early love
    Of dirt and blood and slumber,
  He pulled down these vain deities,
    And made one out of lumber.

  “Far better that than even a cat,”
    The Howisons all shouted;
  “When God is wood religion’s good!”
    But one poor cynic doubted.

  “A timber God—­that’s very odd!”
    Said Progress, and invented
  The simple plan to worship Man,
    Who, kindly soul! consented.

  But soon our eye we lift asky,
    Our vows all unregarded,
  And find (at least so says the priest)
    The Truth—­and Man’s discarded.

  Along our line of march recline
    Dead gods devoid of feeling;
  And thick about each sun-cracked lout
    Dried Howisons are kneeling.

MAGNANIMITY.

  “To the will of the people we loyally bow!”
  That’s the minority shibboleth now. 
  O noble antagonists, answer me flat—­
  What would you do if you didn’t do that?

TO HER.

  O, Sinner A, to me unknown
  Be such a conscience as your own! 
  To ease it you to Sinner B
  Confess the sins of Sinner C.

TO A SUMMER POET.

  Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach,
      With a him. 
  And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach,
      On the limb;
  Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking
  And the dudelet is a-smoking
      Cigarettes;
  And the hackman is a-hacking
  And the showman is a-cracking
      Up his pets;
  Yes, the Jersey ’skeeter flits along the shore
  And the snapdog—­we have heard it o’er and o’er;
      Yes, my poet,
      Well we know it—­
  Know the spooners how they spoon
      In the bright
      Dollar light
  Of the country tavern moon;
      Yes, the caterpillars fall
      From the trees (we know it all),
  And with beetles all the shelves
      Are alive.