Dining his way to eminence, he rowed
  With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed
  From lakes of favor—­pulled with all his force
  And found each river sweeter than the source. 
  Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor,
  Gnawing and rising till obscure no more,
  He ate his way to eminence, and Fame
  Inscribes in gravy his immortal name. 
  A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly,
  So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly. 
  Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him,
  And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him.

  Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie;
  Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why. 
  In ’71 he filled the public eye,
  In ’72 he bade the world good-bye,
  In God’s good time, with a protesting sigh,
  He came to life just long enough to die.

  Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay,
  Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray. 
  He joined the great Order and studied with zeal
  The awful arcana he meant to reveal. 
  At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell—­
  There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell.

  A HYMN OF THE MANY.

  God’s people sorely were oppressed,
    I heard their lamentations long;—­
    I hear their singing, clear and strong,
  I see their banners in the West!

  The captains shout the battle-cry,
    The legions muster in their might;
    They turn their faces to the light,
  They lift their arms, they testify: 

  “We sank beneath the Master’s thong,
    Our chafing chains were ne’er undone;—­
    Now clash your lances in the sun
  And bless your banners with a song!

  “God bides his time with patient eyes
    While tyrants build upon the land;—­
    He lifts his face, he lifts his hand,
  And from the stones his temples rise.

  “Now Freedom waves her joyous wing
    Beyond the foemen’s shields of gold. 
    March forward, singing, for, behold,
  The right shall rule while God is king!”

  ONE MORNING.

  Because that I am weak, my love, and ill,
    I cannot follow the impatient feet
    Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat
  Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill
  The hour appointed for the air to thrill
    And brighten at your coming.  O my sweet,
    The tale of moments is at last complete—­
  The tryst is broken on the gusty hill! 
  O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed,
    The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not;
  Think rather that the clock and sun have lied
    And all too early, you have sought the spot. 
  For lo! despair has darkened all the light,
  And till I see your face it still is night.

  AN ERROR.

  Good for he’s old?  Ah, Youth, you do not dream
  How sweet the roses in the autumn seem!