"Dear, delightful Paris!" He would often say: "Every earthly pleasure One can have for--pay. Wealth gives high position; But when money's tight, Man is at a discount, And it serves him right." After years of study How to cut a dash, He came home embellished With a huge--moustache! Now he is a lion, All the rage up town, And gives gorgeous parties Supervised by--Brown! The almighty dollar Is, no doubt, divine, And he worships daily At that noble shrine; Fashion is his idol, Money is his god, And they both together Rule him like a rod. Books, and busts, and pictures, Are with him a card-- While abroad he bought them Cheaply--by the yard! But his sumptuous dinners, To a turn quite right, With his boon companions, Are his chief delight. Thee his wit and wassail, Like twin-currents flow In his newest stories, Published--long ago. His enchanted hearers Giggle till they weep, As it is their duty Till they--fall asleep. * * * * On his carriage panel Is a blazoned crest, With a Latin motto Given him--in jest. His black coach and footman, Dressed in livery, Every day at Stewart's Many crowd to see. * * * * Well--in upper-ten-dom Let him rest in peace, And may his investments Cent, per cent, increase: Though on earth for no one Cares the millionaire, So does NOT exactly His devoted--heir! * * * * There's a useful moral Woven with my rhyme, Which may be considered At--some other time: Crockery is not porcelain-- It is merely delf-- And the kind most common Is the man himself. In Memory of Charles H. Sandford. He died, as he had lived, beloved, Without an enemy on earth; In word and deed he breathed and moved The soul of honor and of worth: His hand was open as the day, His bearing high, his nature brave; And, when from life he passed away, Our hearts went with him to the grave. What desolation filled our home When death from us our treasure bore!-- Oh! for the better world to come Where we shall meet to part no more! The hope of THAT sustains us now, In THAT we trust on bended knee, While thus around his faded brow We twine the wreath of memory. Seventy-Six. Before the Battle. The clarion call of liberty Rings on the startled gales! The rising hills reverberate The rising of the vales! Through all the land the thrilling shout Swift as an arrow goes! Columbia's champions arm and out To battle with her foes! After the Battle The bugle-song of victory Is vocal in the air! The strains, by warrior-voices breathed, Are echoed by the fair! The eagle, with the wreath, blood-bought, Soars proudly to the sun, Proclaiming the "good fight is fought, And the great victory won!" A Parody.