’T is then men give thee loudest welcome,
  As if thou wert a soul from Hell come.

  O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace
  Of skeleton clock without a case—­
  With all its boweling displayed,
  And all its organs on parade.

  Dear Pun, you’re common ground of bliss,
  Where Punch and I can meet and kiss;
  Than thee my wit can stoop no low’r—­
  No higher his does ever soar.

A PARTISAN’S PROTEST.

  O statesmen, what would you be at,
    With torches, flags and bands? 
  You make me first throw up my hat,
    And then my hands.

TO NANINE.

  Dear, if I never saw your face again;
    If all the music of your voice were mute
    As that of a forlorn and broken lute;
  If only in my dreams I might attain
  The benediction of your touch, how vain
    Were Faith to justify the old pursuit
    Of happiness, or Reason to confute
  The pessimist philosophy of pain. 
  Yet Love not altogether is unwise,
    For still the wind would murmur in the corn,
      And still the sun would splendor all the mere;
      And I—­I could not, dearest, choose but hear
  Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes
    Shine in the glory of the summer morn.

VICE VERSA.

  Down in the state of Maine, the story goes,
    A woman, to secure a lapsing pension,
  Married a soldier—­though the good Lord knows
    That very common act scarce calls for mention. 
  What makes it worthy to be writ and read—­
  The man she married had been nine hours dead!

  Now, marrying a corpse is not an act
    Familiar to our daily observation,
  And so I crave her pardon if the fact
    Suggests this interesting speculation: 
  Should some mischance restore the man to life
  Would she be then a widow, or a wife?

  Let casuists contest the point; I’m not
    Disposed to grapple with so great a matter. 
  ’T would tie my thinker in a double knot
    And drive me staring mad as any hatter—­
  Though I submit that hatters are, in fact,
  Sane, and all other human beings cracked.

  Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance;
    Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention;
  In metaphysics I could ne’er advance,
    And think it of the Devil’s own invention. 
  Enough of joy to know though when I wed
  I must be married, yet I may be dead.

A BLACK-LIST.

  “Resolved that we will post,” the tradesmen say,
  “All names of debtors who do never pay.” 
  “Whose shall be first?” inquires the ready scribe—­
  “Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?”
  Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain,
  Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane!