After a piece of music by the band, The curtain rose before a castle grand, And soldiers talking, with a half-scared mien, About a spook that one of them had seen. When lo! this ghost appears, plump to their view, And will not talk, although they beg him to. (I whispered to my wife that I'd a freak That a newspaper man could make him speak; But suddenly my comments had to cease, For Wife encouraged me to hold my peace.) When lo! this ghost, who, thus far, might have come Out of a sky-asylum for the dumb, Speaks with a queer but rather human sound, When once his son, the Prince, gets on the ground; And taking him aside, ten feet almost, Tells the poor boy that he's his father's ghost, Whose own false brother softly to him crept, And poured him full of poison while he slept. Then the young man got mad, though to my mind 'Twas lunacy of quite a knowing kind; And went to work with an apparent view Of killing off 'most every one he knew. I haven't the time his actions all to state; I'll only say he managed it first-rate, And some way killed all relatives he saw, From uncle to prospective father-in-law; And when he got through, those he hadn't snuffed out Were hardly worth while bothering about. (I mustn't forget to say that this poor elf Became, at last, a good square corpse himself.) I looked around, and, the whole building through, Women were shedding tears as if 'twas true; And Wife was 'most too much concerned to speak, And even my old eyes had sprung a leak. 'Twas a moist time; and I remarked, "'Tis plain We've come out of the rain into the rain." I got so full of funeral, sitting there, Then, when we once more sniffed the clean, live air, It seemed a piece of good-luck all around, To get away once more, alive and sound. That's what they call a "tragedy;" where Death Flies 'round till he himself gets out of breath; And, with sword-slashes and cold poison filled, All who amount to anything, get killed. It's part of life; some time again I'll view it, But take a good square rest before I do it! [_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._] Here on this sea-beach I wander; Why of the storms am I fonder Than of the sunlight above them? And the clouds: why do I love them-- Waves of the sky, onward sweeping, Or to the ocean-waves leaping? Why do I court this fierce day, Dashing my face full of spray? Why, when the waves strike the shore With their strong, leonine roar, Does my soul fiercely entreat them-- Rush out with rapture to meet them? Why do I love to descry War in the fields of the sky? Why does the chain-lightning's glare, Ploughing blue meadows of air, Look to my vision alway Sweet as a star in the day?