That when the crime—­you mean to show
  Your client wasn’t there?” “O, no,
  I cannot quite do that, I find: 
  My alibi’s another kind
  Of alibi,—­I’ll make it clear,
  Your Honor, that he isn’t here.” 
  The Darky here upreared his head,
  Tranquillity affrighted fled
  And consternation reigned instead!

REBUKE.

  When Admonition’s hand essays
    Our greed to curse,
  Its lifted finger oft displays
    Our missing purse.

  J.F.B.

  How well this man unfolded to our view
    The world’s beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell—­
    This man whose own convictions none could tell,
  Nor if his maze of reason had a clew. 
  Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew
    The fair philosophies of doubt so well
    That while we listened to his words there fell
  Some that were strangely comforting, though true. 
  Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt,
    We said:  “If so, by groping in the night,
    He can proclaim some certain paths of trust,
  How great our profit if he saw about
  His feet the highways leading to the light.” 
    Now he sees all.  Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust!

THE DYING STATESMAN.

  It is a politician man—­
    He draweth near his end,
  And friends weep round that partisan,
    Of every man the friend.

  Between the Known and the Unknown
    He lieth on the strand;
  The light upon the sea is thrown
    That lay upon the land.

  It shineth in his glazing eye,
    It burneth on his face;
  God send that when we come to die
    We know that sign of grace!

  Upon his lips his blessed sprite
    Poiseth her joyous wing. 
  “How is it with thee, child of light? 
    Dost hear the angels sing?”

  “The song I hear, the crown I see,
    And know that God is love. 
  Farewell, dark world—­I go to be
    A postmaster above!”

  For him no monumental arch,
    But, O, ’tis good and brave
  To see the Grand Old Party march
    To office o’er his grave!

THE DEATH OF GRANT.

  Father! whose hard and cruel law
    Is part of thy compassion’s plan,
    Thy works presumptuously we scan
  For what the prophets say they saw.

  Unbidden still the awful slope
    Walling us in we climb to gain
    Assurance of the shining plain
  That faith has certified to hope.

  In vain!—­beyond the circling hill
    The shadow and the cloud abide. 
    Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide
  To trust the Record and be still.

  To trust it loyally as he
    Who, heedful of his high design,
    Ne’er raised a seeking eye to thine,
  But wrought thy will unconsciously,