"A timber God--that's very odd!" Said Progress, and invented The simple plan to worship Man, Who, kindly soul! consented. But soon our eye we lift asky, Our vows all unregarded, And find (at least so says the priest) The Truth--and Man's discarded. Along our line of march recline Dead gods devoid of feeling; And thick about each sun-cracked lout Dried Howisons are kneeling. MAGNANIMITY. "To the will of the people we loyally bow!" That's the minority shibboleth now. O noble antagonists, answer me flat-- What would you do if you didn't do that? TO HER. O, Sinner A, to me unknown Be such a conscience as your own! To ease it you to Sinner B Confess the sins of Sinner C. TO A SUMMER POET. Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, With a him. And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, On the limb; Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking And the dudelet is a-smoking Cigarettes; And the hackman is a-hacking And the showman is a-cracking Up his pets; Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore And the snapdog--we have heard it o'er and o'er; Yes, my poet, Well we know it-- Know the spooners how they spoon In the bright Dollar light Of the country tavern moon; Yes, the caterpillars fall From the trees (we know it all), And with beetles all the shelves Are alive. Please unbuttonhole us--O, Have the grace to let us go, For we know How you Summer poets thrive, By the recapitulation And insistent iteration Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among Ourselves! So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss. For you, poor human linnet, There's a half a living in it, But there's not a copper cent in it for us! ARTHUR McEWEN. Posterity with all its eyes Will come and view him where he lies. Then, turning from the scene away With a concerted shrug, will say: "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus-- What interest has that to us? We can't admire at all, at all, A tumble-bug without its ball." And then a sage will rise and say: "Good friends, you err--turn back, I pray: This freak that you unwisely shun Is bug and ball rolled into one." CHARLES AND PETER. Ere Gabriel's note to silence died All graves of men were gaping wide. Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun," Rose slowly from the deepest one. "The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ," Quoth he--"ick, bick, ban, doe,--I'm It!" (His headstone, footstone, counted slow, Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe": Of beating Nick the subtle art Was part of his immortal part.) Then straight to Heaven he took his flight, Arriving at the Gates of Light. There Warden Peter, in the throes Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose. "Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried-- "I've an engagement there inside."