Then I heard the swish of erecting ears
    Which caught that enchanted strain. 
  The ocean was swollen with storms of tears
    That fell from the shining swain.

  “O, poet,” leapt he to the soaken sand,
    “That ravishing song would make
  The devil a saint.”  He held out his hand
    And solemnly added:  “Shake.”

  We shook.  “I crave a victim, you see,”
    He said—­“you came hither to die.” 
  The Angel of Death, ’t was he! ’t was he! 
    And the victim he crove was I!

  ’T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard;
    And he knocked me on the head. 
  O Lord!  I thought it exceedingly hard,
    For I didn’t want to be dead.

  “You’ll sing no worser for that,” said he,
    And he drove with my soul away,
  O, death-song singers, be warned by me,
    Kioodle, ioodle, iay!

  AGAIN.

  Well, I’ve met her again—­at the Mission. 
    She’d told me to see her no more;
  It was not a command—­a petition;
    I’d granted it once before.

  Yes, granted it, hoping she’d write me. 
    Repenting her virtuous freak—­
  Subdued myself daily and nightly
    For the better part of a week.

  And then (’twas my duty to spare her
    The shame of recalling me) I
  Just sought her again to prepare her
    For an everlasting good-bye.

  O, that evening of bliss—­shall I ever
    Forget it?—­with Shakespeare and Poe! 
  She said, when ’twas ended:  “You’re never
    To see me again.  And now go.”

  As we parted with kisses ’twas human
    And natural for me to smile
  As I thought, “She’s in love, and a woman: 
    She’ll send for me after a while.”

  But she didn’t; and so—­well, the Mission
    Is fine, picturesque and gray;
  It’s an excellent place for contrition—­
    And sometimes she passes that way.

  That’s how it occurred that I met her,
    And that’s ah there is to tell—­
  Except that I’d like to forget her
    Calm way of remarking:  “I’m well.”

  It was hardly worth while, all this keying
    My soul to such tensions and stirs
  To learn that her food was agreeing
    With that little stomach of hers.

  HOMO PODUNKENSIS.

  As the poor ass that from his paddock strays
  Might sound abroad his field-companions’ praise,
  Recounting volubly their well-bred leer,
  Their port impressive and their wealth of ear,
  Mistaking for the world’s assent the clang
  Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue;
  So the dull clown, untraveled though at large,
  Visits the city on the ocean’s marge,
  Expands his eyes and marvels to remark
  Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark;
  Prates of “all nations,” wonders as he stares
  That native merchants sell imported wares,
  Nor comprehends how in his very view