UNEXPOUNDED.

  On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills,
  On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills,
    Lawyers great books indite;
  The creaking of their busy quills
    I’ve never heard on Right.

  FRANCE.

  Unhappy State! with horrors still to strive: 
  Thy Hugo dead, thy Boulanger alive;
  A Prince who’d govern where he dares not dwell,
  And who for power would his birthright sell—­
  Who, anxious o’er his enemies to reign,
  Grabs at the scepter and conceals the chain;
  While pugnant factions mutually strive
  By cutting throats to keep the land alive. 
  Perverse in passion, as in pride perverse—­
  To all a mistress, to thyself a curse;
  Sweetheart of Europe! every sun’s embrace
  Matures the charm and poison of thy grace. 
  Yet time to thee nor peace nor wisdom brings: 
  In blood of citizens and blood of kings
  The stones of thy stability are set,
  And the fair fabric trembles at a threat.

  THE EASTERN QUESTION.

  Looking across the line, the Grecian said: 
  “This border I will stain a Turkey red.” 
  The Moslem smiled securely and replied: 
  “No Greek has ever for his country dyed.” 
  While thus each patriot guarded his frontier,
  The Powers stole all the country in his rear.

  A GUEST.

  Death, are you well?  I trust you have no cough
    That’s painful or in any way annoying—­
  No kidney trouble that may carry you off,
    Or heart disease to keep you from enjoying
  Your meals—­and ours.  ’T were very sad indeed
  To have to quit the busy life you lead.

  You’ve been quite active lately for so old
    A person, and not very strong-appearing. 
  I’m apprehensive, somehow, that my bold,
    Bad brother gave you trouble in the spearing. 
  And my two friends—­I fear, sir, that you ran
  Quite hard for them, especially the man.

  I crave your pardon:  ’twas no fault of mine;
    If you are overworked I’m sorry, very. 
  Come in, old man, and have a glass of wine. 
    What shall it be—­Marsala, Port or Sherry? 
  What! just a mug of blood?  That’s funny grog
  To ask a friend for, eh?  Well, take it, hog!

  A FALSE PROPHECY.

  Dom Pedro, Emperor of far Brazil
    (Whence coffee comes and the three-cornered nut),
  They say that you’re imperially ill,
    And threatened with paralysis.  Tut-tut! 
    Though Emperors are mortal, nothing but
  A nimble thunderbolt could catch and kill
  A man predestined to depart this life
  By the assassin’s bullet, bomb or knife.

  Sir, once there was a President who freed
    Ten million slaves; and once there was a Czar
  Who freed five times as many serfs.  Sins breed
    The means of punishment, and tyrants are
    Hurled headlong out of the triumphal car
  If faster than the law allows they speed. 
  Lincoln and Alexander struck a rut;
  You freed slaves too.  Paralysis—­tut-tut!