Ashen-hearted, prone, and prayerful, When of death I see the air full, Lest I perish, too, be careful. On that day of lamentation, When, to enjoy the conflagration. Men come forth, O, be not cruel. Spare me, Lord--make them thy fuel. ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION. See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed For revolution! To foil their villainous crusade Unsheathe again the sacred blade Of persecution. What though through long disuse 't is grown A trifle rusty? 'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown, It still is trusty. Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes, Unapprehensive, Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows; Our zealots chiefly to the nose Assume the offensive. Then wield the blade their necks to hack, Nor ever spare one. Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack, But see that every martyr lack The head to wear one. SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS. "What's in the paper?" Oh, it's dev'lish dull: There's nothing happening at all--a lull After the war-storm. Mr. Someone's wife Killed by her lover with, I think, a knife. A fire on Blank Street and some babies--one, Two, three or four, I don't remember, done To quite a delicate and lovely brown. A husband shot by woman of the town-- The same old story. Shipwreck somewhere south. The crew, all saved--or lost. Uncommon drouth Makes hundreds homeless up the River Mud-- Though, come to think, I guess it was a flood. 'T is feared some bank will burst--or else it won't They always burst, I fancy--or they don't; Who cares a cent?--the banker pays his coin And takes his chances: bullet in the groin-- But that's another item--suicide-- Fool lost his money (serve him right) and died. Heigh-ho! there's noth--Jerusalem! what's this: Tom Jones has failed! My God, what an abyss Of ruin!--owes me seven hundred clear! Was ever such a damned disastrous year! IN THE BINNACLE. [The Church possesses the unerring compass whose needle points directly and persistently to the star of the eternal law of God.--_Religious Weekly._] The Church's compass, if you please, Has two or three (or more) degrees Of variation; And many a soul has gone to grief On this or that or t'other reef Through faith unreckoning or brief Miscalculation. Misguidance is of perils chief To navigation. The obsequious thing makes, too, you'll mark, Obeisance through a little arc Of declination; For Satan, fearing witches, drew From Death's pale horse, one day, a shoe, And nailed it to his door to undo Their machination. Since then the needle dips to woo His habitation. HUMILITY. Great poets fire the world with fagots big That make a crackling racket, But I'm content with but a whispering twig To warm some single jacket. ONE PRESIDENT. "What are those, father?" "Statesmen, my child-- Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild."