'Tis hard once more to separate, But you can't enter here.    "For you, unluckily, were sent So quickly to the grave You had no notice to repent, Nor time your soul to save."    "'Tis true," said she, "and I should wail In Hell even now, but I Have lingered round the county jail To see a Christian die." 

 

 A CONTROVERSIALIST

   I've sometimes wished that Ingersoll were wise To hold his tongue, nor rail against the skies; For when he's made a point some pious dunce Like Bartlett of the Bulletin "replies."    I brandish no iconoclastic fist, Nor enter the debate an atheist; But when they say there is a God I ask Why Bartlett, then, is suffered to exist. Even infidels that logic might resent, Saying: "There's no place for his punishment That's worse than earth." But humbly I submit That he would make a hell wherever sent. 

 

 MENDAX

   High Lord of Liars, Pickering, to thee Let meaner mortals bend the subject knee! Thine is mendacity's imperial crown, Alike by genius, action and renown. No man, since words could set a cheek aflame E'er lied so greatly with so little shame! O bad old man, must thy remaining years Be passed in leading idiots by their ears—   Thine own (which Justice, if she ruled the roast Would fasten to the penitential post)   Still wagging sympathetically—hung the same rocking-bar that bears thy tongue? Thou dog of darkness, dost thou hope to stay Time's dread advance till thou hast had thy day? Dost think the Strangler will release his hold Because, forsooth, some fibs remain untold? No, no—beneath thy multiplying load Of years thou canst not tarry on the road To dabble in the blood thy leaden feet Have pressed from bosoms that have ceased to beat Of reputations margining thy way, Nor wander from the path new truth to slay. Tell to thyself whatever lies thou wilt, Catch as thou canst at pennies got by guilt—   Straight down to death this blessed year thou'lt sink, Thy life washed out as with a wave of ink. But if this prophecy be not fulfilled, And thou who killest patience be not killed; If age assail in vain and vice attack Only by folly to be beaten back; Yet Nature can this consolation give:   The rogues who die not are condemned to live! 

 

 THE RETROSPECTIVE BIRD

   His caw is a cackle, his eye is 

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