One thousand years I slept beneath the sod,
    My sleep in 1901 beginning,
  Then, by the action of some scurvy god
    Who happened then to recollect my sinning,
    I was revived and given another inning. 
  On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd—­
    A formless multitude of men and women,
  Gathered about a ruin.  Clamors loud
    I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in;
    And, pointing at me, one said:  “Let’s put him in.” 
  Then each turned on me with an evil look,
  As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook.

  “Nay, good Posterity,” I cried, “forbear! 
    If that’s a jail I fain would be remaining
  Outside, for truly I should little care
    To catch my death of cold.  I’m just regaining
    The life lost long ago by my disdaining
  To take precautions against draughts like those
    That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting
  Old structure.”  Then an aged wight arose
    From a chair of state in which he had been sitting,
    And with preliminary coughing, spitting
  And wheezing, said:  “’T is not a jail, we’re sure,
  Whate’er it may have been when it was newer.

  “’T was found two centuries ago, o’ergrown
    With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated;
  And in restoring it we found a stone
    Set here and there in the dilapidated
    And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated
  Big characters, with certain uncouth names,
    Which we conclude were borne of old by awful
  Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games—­
    Vagrants engaged in purposes unlawful,
    And orators less sensible than jawful. 
  So each ten years we add to the long row
  A name, the most unworthy that we know.”

  “But why,” I asked, “put me in?” He replied: 
    “You look it”—­and the judgment pained me greatly;
  Right gladly would I then and there have died,
    But that I’d risen from the grave so lately. 
    But on examining that solemn, stately
  Old ruin I remarked:  “My friend, you err—­
    The truth of this is just what I expected. 
  This building in its time made quite a stir. 
    I lived (was famous, too) when ’t was erected. 
    The names here first inscribed were much respected. 
  This is the Hall of Fame, or I’m a stork,
  And this goat pasture once was called New York.”

OMNES VANITAS.

  Alas for ambition’s possessor! 
    Alas for the famous and proud! 
  The Isle of Manhattan’s best dresser
    Is wearing a hand-me-down shroud.

  The world has forgotten his glory;
    The wagoner sings on his wain,
  And Chauncey Depew tells a story,
    And jackasses laugh in the lane.

ASPIRATION.

  No man can truthfully say that he would not like to
  be President.—­William C. Whitney.