“Illustrious Spirit,” said the Voice, “appear! 
    While we confirm eternally thy fame,
  Before our dread tribunal answer, here,
    Why do no statues celebrate thy name,
    No monuments thy services proclaim? 
  Why did not thy contemporaries rear
  To thee some schoolhouse or memorial college? 
  It looks almighty queer, you must acknowledge.”

  Up spake I hotly:  “That is where you err!”
    But some one thundered in my ear:  “You shan’t
  Be interrupting these proceedings, sir;
    The question was addressed to General Grant.” 
    Some other things were spoken which I can’t
  Distinctly now recall, but I infer,
  By certain flushings of my cheeks and forehead,
  Posterity’s environment is torrid.

  Then heard I (this was in a dream, remark)
    Another Voice, clear, comfortable, strong,
  As Grant’s great shade, replying from the dark,
    Said in a tone that rang the earth along,
    And thrilled the senses of the Judges’ throng: 
  “I’d rather you would question why, in park
  And street, my monuments were not erected
  Than why they were.”  Then, waking, I reflected.

THE NEW ENOCH.

  Enoch Arden was an able
    Seaman; hear of his mishap—­
  Not in wild mendacious fable,
   As ‘t was told by t’ other chap;

  For I hold it is a youthful
    Indiscretion to tell lies,
  And the writer that is truthful
    Has the reader that is wise.

  Enoch Arden, able seaman,
    On an isle was cast away,
  And before he was a freeman
    Time had touched him up with gray.

  Long he searched the fair horizon,
    Seated on a mountain top;
  Vessel ne’er he set his eyes on
    That would undertake to stop.

  Seeing that his sight was growing
    Dim and dimmer, day by day,
  Enoch said he must be going. 
    So he rose and went away—­

  Went away and so continued
    Till he lost his lonely isle: 
  Mr. Arden was so sinewed
    He could row for many a mile.

  Compass he had not, nor sextant,
    To direct him o’er the sea: 
  Ere ’t was known that he was extant,
    At his widow’s home was he.

  When he saw the hills and hollows
    And the streets he could but know,
  He gave utterance as follows
    To the sentiments below: 

  “Blast my tarry toplights! (shiver,
    Too, my timbers!) but, I say,
  W’at a larruk to diskiver,
    I have lost me blessid way!

  “W’at, alas, would be my bloomin’
    Fate if Philip now I see,
  Which I lammed?—­or my old ’oman,
    Which has frequent basted me?”

  Scenes of childhood swam around him
    At the thought of such a lot: 
  In a swoon his Annie found him
    And conveyed him to her cot.