A HASTY INFERENCE

The Devil one day, coming up from the Pit,
  All grimy with perspiration,
Applied to St. Peter and begged he’d admit
  Him a moment for consultation.

The Saint showed him in where the Master reclined
  On the throne where petitioners sought him;
Both bowed, and the Evil One opened his mind
  Concerning the business that brought him: 

“For ten million years I’ve been kept in a stew
  Because you have thought me immoral;
And though I have had my opinion of you,
  You’ve had the best end of the quarrel.

“But now—­well, I venture to hope that the past
  With its misunderstandings we’ll smother;
And you, sir, and I, sir, be throned here at last
  As equals, the one to the other.”

“Indeed!” said the Master (I cannot convey
  A sense of his tone by mere letters)
“What makes you presume you’ll be bidden to stay
  Up here on such terms with your betters?”

“Why, sure you can’t mean it!” said Satan.  “I’ve seen
  How Stanford and Crocker you’ve nourished,
And Huntington—­bless me! the three like a green
  Umbrageous great bay-tree have flourished.

They are fat, they are rolling in gold, they command
  All sources and well-springs of power;
You’ve given them houses, you’ve given them land—­
  Before them the righteous all cower.”

“What of that?” “What of that?” cried the Father of Sin;
  “Why, I thought when I saw you were winking
At crimes such as theirs that perhaps you had been
  Converted to my way of thinking.”

A VOLUPTUARY

Who’s this that lispeth in the thickening throng
Which crowds to claim distinction in my song? 
Fresh from “the palms and temples of the South,”
The mixed aromas quarrel in his mouth: 
Of orange blossoms this the lingering gale,
And that the odor of a spicy tale. 
Sir, in thy pleasure-dome down by the sea
(No finer one did Kubla Khan decree)
Where, Master of the Revels, thou dost stand
With joys and mysteries on either hand,
Dost keep a poet to report the rites
And sing the tale of those Elysian nights? 
Faith, sir, I’d like the place if not too young. 
I’m no great bard, but—­I can hold my tongue.

AD CATTONUM

I know not, Mr. Catton, who you are,
Nor very clearly why; but you go far
To show that you are many things beside
A Chilean Consul with a tempting hide;
But what they are I hardly could explain
Without afflicting you with mental pain. 
Your name (gods! what a name the muse to woo—­
Suggesting cats, and hinting kittens, too!)
Points to an origin—­perhaps Maltese,
Perhaps Angoran—­where the wicked cease
From fiddling, and the animals that grow
The strings that groan to the tormenting bow
Live undespoiled of their insides, resigned
To give their name and nature to mankind. 
With Chilean birth your name but poorly tallies;
The test is—­Did you ever sell tamales?