With purpose murderous and hearty,
To draw the Democratic party!

He felt his fingers vainly slide
Upon his unappareled hide

(The dead arise from their “silent tents”
But not their late habiliments)

Then wailed—­the briefest of his speeches: 
“I’ve left it in my other breeches!”

A POLITICAL VIOLET

Come, Stanford, let us sit at ease
  And talk as old friends do. 
You talk of anything you please,
  And I will talk of you.

You recently have said, I hear,
  That you would like to go
To serve as Senator.  That’s queer! 
  Have you told William Stow?

Once when the Legislature said: 
  “Go, Stanford, and be great!”
You lifted up your Jovian head
  And everlooked the State.

As one made leisurely awake,
  You lightly rubbed your eyes
And answered:  “Thank you—­please to make
  A note of my surprise.

“But who are they who skulk aside,
  As to get out of reach,
And in their clothing strive to hide
  Three thousand dollars each?

“Not members of your body, sure? 
  No, that can hardly be: 
All statesmen, I suppose, are pure. 
  What! there are rogues?  Dear me!”

You added, you’ll recall, that though
  You were surprised and pained,
You thought, upon the whole, you’d go,
  And in that mind remained.

Now, what so great a change has wrought
  That you so frankly speak
Of “seeking” honors once unsought
  Because you “scorned to seek”?

Do you not fear the grave reproof
  In good Creed Haymond’s eye? 
Will Stephen Gage not stand aloof
  And pass you coldly by?

O, fear you not that Vrooman’s lich
  Will rise from earth and point
At you a scornful finger which
  May lack, perchance, a joint?

Go, Stanford, where the violets grow,
  And join their modest train. 
Await the work of William Stow
  And be surprised again.

THE SUBDUED EDITOR

Pope-choker Pixley sat in his den
    A-chewin’ upon his quid. 
He thought it was Leo Thirteen, and then
    He bit it intenser, he did.

The amber which overflew from the cud
    Like rivers which burst out of bounds—­
’Twas peculiar grateful to think it blood
    A-gushin’ from Papal wounds.

A knockin’ was heard uponto the door
    Where some one a-waitin’ was. 
“Come in,” said the shedder of priestly gore,
    Arrestin’ to once his jaws.

The person which entered was curly of hair
    And smilin’ as ever you see;
His eyes was blue, and uncommon fair
    Was his physiognomee.

And yet there was some’at remarkable grand—­
    And the editor says as he looks: 
“Your Height” (it was Highness, you understand,
    That he meant, but he spoke like books)—­