"His rooted stand and settled haze The foot he plants 'gainst sudden New, Whose golden tilth and reap of grace Holds furrowed snug the only True. "His crafty shield; those mealy snares For simple lambs. His wolfish doubt, When, stung and wrung with sore his cares, They flocked to help friend Hodges out-- "And forced from faith his better word, And warped his truth with keen despair, That the large rights for which he chored Should never greet a lineal heir. "But all his throb and bitter sweat, His blood paid down for desert lands, Should snap its lease, be lightly set A hawker's trust in stranger hands-- "And how for this he bled and drove, Cribbed-in this band of saintly Peace; Played wary host to all their trove, Made yare go 'round the golden fleece-- "And worst--those sons of loot, his bossy crew! Who, fearing thieves, would chance no charm, But gag the spoiler 'fore he grew To oust their rights with legal arm. "All this: shocks! 'Twere worth a bloody nose: To size him up, then pare him down, Till, as to cure the treatment grows, We snug him hale within the Crown. "A gem whose shine and proper place And dapper fit to lofty plan He'll soon see clear thro' his amaze, With contrite heart--the leal man. "And Square-toes' gait at last be set; With social wash to status brought His lowly breed and rustic sweat: O, God of Thrift! What happy thought!" * * * * * When hard upon this longish muse, Which, if it fail of absolute mold, Is yet what, at a close peruse, A muddled act does broadly hold-- When pat, to suit Godfather's cue, That pious child, the hungry League Was christened snug and gospeled through, Anoint with salve of high intrigue; Nay, preached and bore the brainless gang, Who gripped at throat the better hope While Right, with due, past caution rang How every neck was worth a rope. And 'woke this cry with warning rouse-- "Since Neighbor Near seem Neighbor Pike, 'Twere time small fry made fast the house, Girt fence and gate with double spike." * * * * * Since when, what other brood of kindred grace, Which, true to stock, the devil yeans, Joined trick and tooth and darksome ways To work the bolts by subtler means! While last--O, John, will ne'er thy friends be wise? What balm, tho' gross with clumsy tape, What quacks' set-up in surgeon's guise Came foisting, fuddling from the Cape! What hangman's cure and mad appeal, What blind invoke past doubt of suit, What sowings thrust with iron heel, Whose yet no half has bore its fruit!