Ralph Smith a "shoulder-striker"! God, O hear This hardy man's description of thy dear Dead child, the gentlest soul, save only One, E'er born in any land beneath the sun. All silent benefactions still he wrought: High deed and gracious speech and noble thought, Kept all thy law, and, seeking still the right, Upon his blameless breast received the light. "Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints," he cried Whose wrath was deep as his comparison wide-- Milton, thy servant. Nay, thy will be done: To smite or spare--to me it all is one. Can vengeance bring my sorrow to an end, Or justice give me back my buried friend? But if some Milton vainly now implore, And Powell prosper as he did before, Yet 'twere too much that, making no ado, Thy saints be slaughtered and be slandered too. So, Lord, make Knight his weapon keep in sheath, Or do Thou wrest it from between his teeth! UNARMED Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate, When Stephen M. White arrived in state. "Admit me." "With pleasure," Peter said, Pleased to observe that the man was dead; "That's what I'm here for. Kindly show Your ticket, my lord, and in you go." White stared in blank surprise. Said he "I _run_ this place--just turn that key." "Yes?" said the Saint; and Stephen heard With pain the inflection of that word. But, mastering his emotion, he Remarked: "My friend, you're too d---- free; "I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!" And, "Yes?" the guardian said, with quite The self-same irritating stress Distinguishing his former yes. And still demurely as a mouse He twirled the key to that Upper House. Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain Admittance to those halls to gain, Said, neighborly: "Pray tell me. Pete, Does any one contest my seat?" The Saint replied: "Nay, nay, not so; But you voted always wrong below: "Whate'er the question, clear and high You're voice rang: '_I_,' '_I_,' ever '_I_.'" Now indignation fired the heart Of that insulted immortal part. "Die, wretch!" he cried, with blanching lip, And made a motion to his hip, With purpose murderous and hearty, To draw the Democratic party! He felt his fingers vainly slide Upon his unappareled hide (The dead arise from their "silent tents" But not their late habiliments) Then wailed--the briefest of his speeches: "I've left it in my other breeches!" A POLITICAL VIOLET Come, Stanford, let us sit at ease And talk as old friends do. You talk of anything you please, And I will talk of you. You recently have said, I hear, That you would like to go To serve as Senator. That's queer! Have you told William Stow? Once when the Legislature said: "Go, Stanford, and be great!" You lifted up your Jovian head And everlooked the State. As one made leisurely awake, You lightly rubbed your eyes And answered: "Thank you--please to make A note of my surprise. "But who are they who skulk aside, As to get out of reach, And in their clothing strive to hide Three thousand dollars each?