Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note,
    Worthy of honor from a feeble pen
    Blunted in service of all true, good men,
  You serve the Lord—­in courses, table d’hote: 
  Au, naturel, as well as a la Nick—­
    “Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick.”

  O, truly pious caterer, forbear
    To push the Saviour and Him crucified
    (Brochette you’d call it) into their inside
  Who’re all unused to such ambrosial fare. 
  The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion
  Of aught that it has taken on compulsion.

  I search the Scriptures, but I do not find
    That e’er the Spirit beats with angry wings
    For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings
  To charm away the scruples of the mind. 
  It says:  “Receive me, please; I’ll not compel”—­
  Though if you don’t you will go straight to Hell!

  Well, that’s compulsion, you will say.  ’T is true: 
    We cower timidly beneath the rod
    Lifted in menace by an angry God,
  But won’t endure it from an ape like you. 
  Detested simian with thumb prehensile,
  Switch me and I would brain you with my pencil!

  Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your back
    On its transplendency to flog some wight
    Who gropes and stumbles in the infernal night
  Your ugly shadow lays along his track. 
  O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin,
  Behold what rascals try to scourge it in!

JUDGMENT.

  I drew aside the Future’s veil
    And saw upon his bier
  The poet Whitman.  Loud the wail
    And damp the falling tear.

  “He’s dead—­he is no more!” one cried,
    With sobs of sorrow crammed;
  “No more?  He’s this much more,” replied
    Another:  “he is damned!”

  1885.

THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN.

  Hear me sing of Sally Larkin who, I’d have you understand,
  Played accordions as well as any lady in the land;
  And I’ve often heard it stated that her fingering was such
  That Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with her touch;
  And that beasts were so affected when her apparatus rang
  That they dropped upon their haunches and deliriously sang. 
  This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine,
  Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine. 
  She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyes were wet
  When Sally and the ranch-dog were performing a duet—­
  Which I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sung
  As to overtax the strength of any single human lung. 
  That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale I have to tell,
  Which (I’ve told you how she flourished) is how Sally Larkin fell.