TO OSCAR WILDE.

  Because from Folly’s lips you got
    Some babbled mandate to subdue
    The realm of Common Sense, and you
  Made promise and considered not—­

  Because you strike a random blow
    At what you do not understand,
    And beckon with a friendly hand
  To something that you do not know,

  I hold no speech of your desert,
    Nor answer with porrected shield
    The wooden weapon that you wield,
  But meet you with a cast of dirt.

  Dispute with such a thing as you—­
    Twin show to the two-headed calf? 
    Why, sir, if I repress my laugh,
  ’T is more than half the world can do.

  1882.

PRAYER.

  Fear not in any tongue to call
  Upon the Lord—­He’s skilled in all. 
  But if He answereth my plea
  He speaketh one unknown to me.

A “BORN LEADER OF MEN.”

    Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh
      Is a statesman of world-wide fame,
    With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh
      To glorify somebody’s name—­
  Somebody chosen by Tuckerton’s masters
  To succor the country from divers disasters
      Portentous to Mr. Mahosh.

    Percy O’Halloran Tarpy Cabee
      Is in the political swim. 
    He cares not a button for men, not he: 
      Great principles captivate him—­
  Principles cleverly cut out and fitted
  To Percy’s capacity, duly submitted,
      And fought for by Mr. Cabee.

    Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse
      Holds office the most of his life. 
    For men nor for principles cares he a curse,
      But much for his neighbor’s wife. 
  The Ship of State leaks, but he doesn’t pump any,
  Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company
      Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse.

TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE.

  O Liberty, God-gifted—­
    Young and immortal maid—­
  In your high hand uplifted;
    The torch declares your trade.

  Its crimson menace, flaming
    Upon the sea and shore,
  Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming
    That Law shall be no more.

  Austere incendiary,
    We’re blinking in the light;
  Where is your customary
    Grenade of dynamite?

  Where are your staves and switches
    For men of gentle birth? 
  Your mask and dirk for riches? 
    Your chains for wit and worth?

  Perhaps, you’ve brought the halters
    You used in the old days,
  When round religion’s altars
    You stabled Cromwell’s bays?

  Behind you, unsuspected,
    Have you the axe, fair wench,
  Wherewith you once collected
    A poll-tax from the French?

  America salutes you—­
    Preparing to disgorge. 
  Take everything that suits you,
    And marry Henry George.