SHE: 

  I’m told that men have sometimes got
    Too confidential, and
  Have said to one another what
    They—­well, you understand. 
  I hope I don’t offend you, sweet,
  But are you sure that you’re discreet?

          HE: 

  ’Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine
    Their conquests do recall,
  But none can truly say that mine
    Are known to him at all. 
  I never, never talk you o’er—­
  In truth, I never get the floor.

AN EXILE.

  ’Tis the census enumerator
    A-singing all forlorn: 
  It’s ho! for the tall potater,
    And ho! for the clustered corn. 
  The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine
  Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine.

  “Some there must be to till the soil
    And the widow’s weeds keep down. 
  I wasn’t cut out for rural toil
    But they won’t let me live in town! 
  They ’re not so many by two or three,
    As they think, but ah! they ’re too many for me.”

  Thus the census man, bowed down with care,
    Warbled his wood-note high. 
  There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair,
    But he had no blood in his eye.

THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT.

  Baffled he stands upon the track—­
  The automatic switches clack.

  Where’er he turns his solemn eyes
  The interlocking signals rise.

  The trains, before his visage pale,
  Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail.

  No splinter-spitted victim he
  Hears uttering the note high C.

  In sorrow deep he hangs his head,
  A-weary—­would that he were dead.

  Now suddenly his spirits rise—­
  A great thought kindles in his eyes.

  Hope, like a headlight’s vivid glare,
  Splendors the path of his despair.

  His genius shines, the clouds roll back—­
  “I’ll place obstructions on the track!”

PSYCHOGRAPHS.

  Says Gerald Massey:  “When I write, a band
  Of souls of the departed guides my hand.” 
  How strange that poems cumbering our shelves,
  Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves!

TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST.

  Newman, in you two parasites combine: 
  As tapeworm and as graveworm too you shine. 
  When on the virtues of the quick you’ve dwelt,
  The pride of residence was all you felt
  (What vain vulgarian the wish ne’er knew
  To paint his lodging a flamboyant hue?)
  And when the praises of the dead you’ve sung,
  ’Twas appetite, not truth, inspired your tongue;
  As ill-bred men when warming to their wine
  Boast of its merit though it be but brine. 
  Nor gratitude incites your song, nor should—­
  Even charity would shun you if she could.