From bloody hands the reins of pow’r
Fall slack; the high-decisive hour
  Strikes not for liars’ ears. 
Remove, O Father, the disgrace
That stains our California’s face,
And consecrate to human good
The strength of her young womanhood
  And all her golden years!

DE YOUNG—­A PROPHECY

Running for Senator with clumsy pace,
He stooped so low, to win at least a place,
That Fortune, tempted by a mark so droll,
Sprang in an kicked him to the winning pole.

TO EITHER

      Back further than
      I know, in San
Francisco dwelt a wealthy man. 
      So rich was he
      That none could be
Wise, good and great in like degree.

      ’Tis true he wrought,
      In deed or thought,
But few of all the things he ought;
      But men said:  “Who
      Would wish him to? 
Great souls are born to be, not do!”

      One thing, indeed,
      He did, we read,
Which was becoming, all agreed: 
      Grown provident,
      Ere life was spent
He built a mighty monument.

      For longer than
      I know, in San
Francisco lived a beggar man;
      And when in bed
      They found him dead—­
“Just like the scamp!” the people said.

      He died, they say,
      On the same day
His wealthy neighbor passed away. 
      What matters it
      When beggars quit
Their beats?  I answer:  Not a bit.

      They got a spade
      And pick and made
A hole, and there the chap was laid. 
      “He asked for bread,”
      ’Twas neatly said: 
“He’ll get not even a stone instead.”

      The years rolled round: 
      His humble mound
Sank to the level of the ground;
      And men forgot
      That the bare spot
Was like (and was) the beggar’s lot.

      Forgotten, too,
      Was t’other, who
Had reared the monument to woo
      Inconstant Fame,
      Though still his name
Shouted in granite just the same.

      That name, I swear,
      They both did bear
The beggar and the millionaire. 
      That lofty tomb,
      Then, honored—­whom? 
For argument here’s ample room.

      I’ll not debate,
      But only state
The scamp first claimed it at the Gate. 
      St. Peter, proud
      To serve him, bowed
And showed him to the softest cloud.

DISAPPOINTMENT

The Senate woke; the Chairman’s snore
     Was stilled, its echoes balking;
The startled members dreamed no more,
For Steele, who long had held the floor,
     Had suddenly ceased talking.

As, like Elijah, in his pride,
     He to his seat was passing,
“Go up thou baldhead!” Reddy cried. 
Then six fierce bears ensued and tried
     To sunder him for “sassing.”