“Nay, man of peace, seek not to know
    War’s baleful fascination—­
  The soldier’s hunger for the foe,
  His dread of safety, joy to go
    To court annihilation. 
  Though calling bugles blow not now,
    Nor drums begin to beat yet,
  One fear unmans me, I’ll allow,
  And poisons all my pleasure:  How
    If I should get my feet wet!”

  “A LITERARY METHOD.”

  His poems Riley says that he indites
    Upon an empty stomach.  Heavenly Powers,
  Feed him throat-full:  for what the beggar writes
    Upon his empty stomach empties ours!

A WELCOME.

  Because you call yourself Knights Templar, and
  There’s neither Knight nor Temple in the land,—­
    Because you thus by vain pretense degrade
  To paltry purposes traditions grand,—­

  Because to cheat the ignorant you say
  The thing that’s not, elated still to sway
    The crass credulity of gaping fools
  And women by fantastical display,—­

  Because no sacred fires did ever warm
  Your hearts, high knightly service to perform—­
    A woman’s breast or coffer of a man
  The only citadel you dare to storm,—­

  Because while railing still at lord and peer,
  At pomp and fuss-and-feathers while you jeer,
    Each member of your order tries to graft
  A peacock’s tail upon his barren rear,—­

  Because that all these things are thus and so,
  I bid you welcome to our city.  Lo! 
    You’re free to come, and free to stay, and free
  As soon as it shall please you, sirs—­to go.

A SERENADE.

  “Sas agapo sas agapo,”
    He sang beneath her lattice. 
  “’Sas agapo’?” she murmured—­“O,
    I wonder, now, what that is!”

  Was she less fair that she did bear
    So light a load of knowledge? 
  Are loving looks got out of books,
    Or kisses taught in college?

  Of woman’s lore give me no more
    Than how to love,—­in many
  A tongue men brawl:  she speaks them all
    Who says “I love,” in any.

THE WISE AND GOOD.

  “O father, I saw at the church as I passed
  The populace gathered in numbers so vast
  That they couldn’t get in; and their voices were low,
  And they looked as if suffering terrible woe.”

  “’Twas the funeral, child, of a gentleman dead
  For whom the great heart of humanity bled.”

  “What made it bleed, father, for every day
  Somebody passes forever away? 
  Do the newspaper men print a column or more
  Of every person whose troubles are o’er?”

  “O, no; they could never do that—­and indeed,
  Though printers might print it, no reader would read. 
  To the sepulcher all, soon or late, must be borne,
  But ’tis only the Wise and the Good that all mourn.”