Strolling in the grove, Gathering flowers for my love, Gathering sweet flowers of the May Oh, my heart, my heart is glad to-day! From my little cabin home By the swiftly-flowing Platte, Where the trout grow large and fat, Have I ever cared to roam? Go away, quit, forsake my little, cozy, quaint, Colorado home? No, no; I could not,--could not think of that. Happy as a monarch I reside In the forest by my native river-side. _TO WALTER WHITMAN_ Walter Whitman! Walter Whitman! Walter, won’t you never quit, man? Say neighbor, say, throw those hyadons away! Those small wigglers are not fit, man, To make good canned sardines, I say. Walter Whitman! Walter Whitman! Walter, don’t you ever kind of wish Just to drop down by the Platte and sit, man, And laze, and laze, and yank out some big fish? Walter Whitman! Walter, we have “whoppers” here! What think you of twenty pounder trout? Walt, Walt, bring along your spear, You will call ’em “whales,” no doubt. Walter Whitman! Walter Whitman! Walter, ain’t you yet caught it, man? Hey, neighbor! Hey there! I say. Walt, Walt, just please step down to our house; We have “natives,” “rainbows,” venison and grouse, Come, Walter, come, dine with us to-day. _KING MAMMON_ Attended by his glittering train, King Mammon drives his chariot by, Prostrate and bleeding, on the plain, His crushed, yet fawning, subjects lie. A mighty monarch--oh, ho! ho! is he! His hand shuts like a hasp. He dictates to “the Powers that be”; The nations tremble in his grasp. For him “the lilies of the field” Their sweetest, sacred incense yield. He labors not--why should he toil? (For him the servile millions moil!) A tyrant old--ah, ha! ha! he is; He rules the earth, he rules the seas, The rolling planets he would chain; He robs the farmers of their grain; He cheats the worker of his wage; He whelms the peasant in his rage; The merchant’s ruin swells his gain; Beneath his chariot wheels profane Ten thousand wights each year are slain. Kneel, then, ye hosts! Grovel on the plain! King Mammon is driving by. Behold! Thugs, cut-throats--in his train! Hands up! Yield! Deliver! or ye shall die. “_LO QUE ES EL MUNDI_”