the artist Time To emphasize the desolation round. Into the stagnant sea the sullen sun Sank behind bars of crimson, one by one.       "Eternity's at hand!" I cried aloud.   "Eternity," the angel said, "is done. For man is ages dead in every zone; The angels all are dead but I alone; The devils, too, are cold enough at last, And God lies dead before the great white throne!    'Tis foreordained that I bestride the shore When all are gone (as Gabriel did before, When I had throttled the last man alive)   And swear Eternity shall be no more."    "O Azrael—O Prince of Death, declare Why conquered I the grave?" I cried. "What rare, Conspicuous virtues won this boon for me?"   "You've been revived," he said, "to hear me swear."    "Then let me creep again beneath the grass, And knock thou at yon pompous tomb of brass. If ears are what you want, Charles Crocker's there—   Betwixt the greatest ears, the greatest ass."    He rapped, and while the hollow echoes rang, Out at the door a curst hyena sprang And fled! Said Azrael: "His soul's escaped,"   And closed the brazen portal with a bang. 

 

 THE VETERAN

   John Jackson, once a soldier bold, Hath still a martial feeling; So, when he sees a foe, behold! He charges him—with stealing. He cares not how much ground to-day He gives for men to doubt him; He's used to giving ground, they say, Who lately fought with—out him. When, for the battle to be won, His gallantry was needed, They say each time a loaded gun Went off—so, likewise, he did. And when discharged (for war's a sport So hot he had to leave it)   He made a very loud report, But no one did believe it. 

 

 AN "EXHIBIT"

   Goldenson hanged! Well, Heaven forbid That I should smile above him:   Though truth to tell, I never did Exactly love him. It can't be wrong, though, to rejoice That his unpleasing capers Are ended. Silent is his voice In all the papers. No longer he's a show: no more, Bear-like, his den he's walking. No longer can he hold the floor When I'd be talking. The laws that govern jails are bad If such displays are lawful. The fate of the assassin's sad, But ours is awful! What! shall a wretch condemned to die In shame upon the gibbet Be set before the public eye As an "exhibit"?—    His looks, his actions noted down, His words if light or solemn, And all this hawked about the town— 

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