TO A WORD-WARRIOR

   Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand That strove to cut the country's throat, Cannot forgive the hands that smote Applauding in a distant land,—    Applauding carelessly, as one The weaker willing to befriend Until the quarrel's at an end, Then learn by whom it was begun. When North was pitted against South Non-combatants on either side In calculating fury vied, And fought their foes by word of mouth. That devil's-camisade you led With formidable feats of tongue. Upon the battle's rear you hung—   With Samson's weapon slew the dead! So hot the ardor of your soul That every fierce civilian came, His torch to kindle at your name, Or have you blow his cooling coal. Men prematurely left their beds And sought the gelid bath—so great The heat and splendor of your hate Of Englishmen and "Copperheads."    King Liar of deceitful men, For imposition doubly armed! The patriots whom your speaking charmed You stung to madness with your pen. There was a certain journal here, Its English owner growing rich—     Your hand the treason wrote for which A mob cut short its curst career. If, Pixley, you had not the brain To know the true from false, or you To Truth had courage to be true, And loyal to her perfect reign; If you had not your powers arrayed To serve the wrong by tricksy speech, Nor pushed yourself within the reach Of retribution's accolade, I had not had the will to go Outside the olive-bordered path Of peace to cut the birch of wrath, And strip your body for the blow. Behold how dark the war-clouds rise About the mother of our race! The lightnings gild her tranquil face And glitter in her patient eyes. Her children throng the hither flood And lean intent above the beach. Their beating hearts inhibit speech With stifling tides of English blood.    "Their skies, but not their hearts, they change Who go in ships across the sea"—     Through all centuries to be The strange new land will still be strange. The Island Mother holds in gage The souls of sons she never saw; Superior to law, the law Of sympathetic heritage. Forgotten now the foolish reign Of wrath which sundered trivial ties. A soldier's sabre vainly tries To cleave a spiritual chain. The iron in our blood affines, Though fratricidal hands may spill. Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill, Yet Love abide at Seven Pines? 

 

 A CULINARY CANDIDATE

   A cook adorned with paper cap, Or waiter 

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