Thyself disguised, in many a way Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play, Adorning all where'er it turns, As the revealing bull's-eye burns, Of the dim thief, and plays its trick Upon the lock he means to pick. Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear As boldly as a brigadier Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er, Of rank, brigade, division, corps, To show by every means he can An officer is not a man; Or naked, with a lordly swagger, Proud as a cur without a wagger, Who says: "See simple worth prevail-- All dog, sir--not a bit of tail!" 'T is then men give thee loudest welcome, As if thou wert a soul from Hell come. O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace Of skeleton clock without a case-- With all its boweling displayed, And all its organs on parade. Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss, Where _Punch_ and I can meet and kiss; Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r-- No higher his does ever soar. A PARTISAN'S PROTEST. O statesmen, what would you be at, With torches, flags and bands? You make me first throw up my hat, And then my hands. TO NANINE. Dear, if I never saw your face again; If all the music of your voice were mute As that of a forlorn and broken lute; If only in my dreams I might attain The benediction of your touch, how vain Were Faith to justify the old pursuit Of happiness, or Reason to confute The pessimist philosophy of pain. Yet Love not altogether is unwise, For still the wind would murmur in the corn, And still the sun would splendor all the mere; And I--I could not, dearest, choose but hear Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes Shine in the glory of the summer morn. VICE VERSA. Down in the state of Maine, the story goes, A woman, to secure a lapsing pension, Married a soldier--though the good Lord knows That very common act scarce calls for mention. What makes it worthy to be writ and read-- The man she married had been nine hours dead! Now, marrying a corpse is not an act Familiar to our daily observation, And so I crave her pardon if the fact Suggests this interesting speculation: Should some mischance restore the man to life Would she be then a widow, or a wife? Let casuists contest the point; I'm not Disposed to grapple with so great a matter. 'T would tie my thinker in a double knot And drive me staring mad as any hatter-- Though I submit that hatters are, in fact, Sane, and all other human beings cracked. Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance; Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention; In metaphysics I could ne'er advance, And think it of the Devil's own invention. Enough of joy to know though when I wed I _must_ be married, yet I _may_ be dead. A BLACK-LIST.