“Lo! the time is close upon you
when the madness of the season
Having howled itself to silence,
like a Minnesota ’clone,
Will at last be superseded by the still,
small voice of reason,
When the whelpage of your
folly you would willingly disown.
“Ah, ’tis mournful to consider
what remorses will be thronging,
With a consciousness of having
been so ghastly indiscreet,
When by accident untoward two ex-gentlemen
belonging
To the opposite political
denominations meet!
“Yes, ’tis melancholy, truly,
to forecast the fierce, unruly
Supersurging of their blushes,
like the flushes upon high
When Aurora Borealis lights her circumpolar
palace
And in customary manner sets
her banner in the sky.
“Each will think: ’This
falsifier knows that I too am a liar.
Curse him for a son of Satan, all unholily
compound!
Curse my leader for another! Curse
that pelican, my mother!
Would to God that I when little in my
victual had been drowned!’”
Then that Venerable Person went away without
returning
And, the madness of the season having
also taken flight,
All the people soon were blushing like
the skies to crimson burning
When Aurora Borealis fires her premises
by night.
NOVUM ORGANUM.
In Bacon see the culminating prime
Of Anglo-Saxon intellect and crime.
He dies and Nature, settling his affairs,
Parts his endowments among us, his heirs:
To every one a pinch of brain for seed,
And, to develop it, a pinch of greed.
Each thrifty heir, to make the gift suffice,
Buries the talent to manure the vice.
GEOTHEOS.
As sweet as the look of a lover
Saluting the eyes of a maid,
That blossom to blue as the maid
Is ablush to the glances above her,
The sunshine is gilding the glade
And lifting the lark out of shade.
Sing therefore high praises, and therefore
Sing songs that are ancient as gold,
Of Earth in her garments of gold;
Nor ask of their meaning, nor wherefore
They charm as of yore, for behold!
The Earth is as fair as of old.
Sing songs of the pride of the mountains,
And songs of the strength of the
seas,
And the fountains that fall to the
seas
From the hands of the hills, and the fountains
That shine in the temples of trees,
In valleys of roses and bees.
Sing songs that are dreamy and tender,
Of slender Arabian palms,
And shadows that circle the
palms,
Where caravans, veiled from the splendor,
Are kneeling in blossoms and
balms,
In islands of infinite calms.
Barbaric, O Man, was thy runing
When mountains were stained
as with wine
By the dawning of Time, and
as wine
Were the seas, yet its echoes are crooning,
Achant in the gusty pine
And the pulse of the poet’s
line.