No doubt the happiness is great To think as one would wish to; But not to swallow every bait, As certain fish do. To think a snake a cord, I hope, Would bolden and delight me; But some day I might think a rope Would chase and bite me. "Curst Reason! Faith forever blest!" You're crying all the season. Well, who decides that Faith is best? Why, Mr. Reason. He's right or wrong; he answers you According to your folly, And says what you have taught him to, Like any polly. AN EPITAPH Hangman's hands laid in this tomb an Imp of Satan's getting, whom an Ancient legend says that woman Never bore--he owed his birth To Sin herself. From Hell to Earth She brought the brat in secret state And laid him at the Golden gate, And they named him Henry Vrooman. While with mortals here he stayed, His father frequently he played. Raised his birth-place and in other Playful ways begot his mother. A SPADE [The spade that was used to turn the first sod in the construction of the Central Pacific Railroad is to be exhibited at the New Orleans Exposition.--_Press Telegram_.] Precursor of our woes, historic spade, What dismal records burn upon thy blade! On thee I see the maculating stains Of passengers' commingled blood and brains. In this red rust a widow's curse appears, And here an orphan tarnished thee with tears. Upon thy handle sanguinary bands Reveal the clutching of thine owner's hands When first he wielded thee with vigor brave To cut a sod and dig a people's grave-- (For they who are debauched are dead and ought, In God's name, to be hid from sight and thought.) Within thee, as within a magic glass, I seem to see a foul procession pass-- Judges with ermine dragging in the mud And spotted here and there with guiltless blood; Gold-greedy legislators jingling bribes; Kept editors and sycophantic scribes; Liars in swarms and plunderers in tribes; They fade away before the night's advance, And fancy figures thee a devil's lance Gleaming portentous through the misty shade, While ghosts of murdered virtues shriek about my blade! THE VAN NESSIAD From end to end, thine avenue, Van Ness, Rang with the cries of battle and distress! Brave lungs were thundering with dreadful sound And perspiration smoked along the ground! Sing, heavenly muse, to ears of mortal clay, The meaning, cause and finish of the fray.