to die is not so far, Or, at the least, to live the thing you are! Pregnant with possibilities of crime, And full of felons for all coming time, Your blood's too precious to be lightly spilt In testimony to a venial guilt. Live to get whelpage and preserve a name No praise can sweeten and no lie unshame. Live to fulfill the vision that I see Down the dim vistas of the time to be:   A dream of clattering beaks and burning eyes Of hungry ravens glooming all the skies; A dream of gleaming teeth and foetid breath Of jackals wrangling at the feast of death; A dream of broken necks and swollen tongues—   The whole world's gibbets loaded with De Youngs! 1881. 

 

 TWO STATESMEN

   In that fair city by the inland sea, Where Blaine unhived his Presidential bee, Frank Pixley's meeting with George Gorham sing, Celestial muse, and what events did spring From the encounter of those mighty sons Of thunder, and of slaughter, and of guns. Great Gorham first, his yearning tooth to sate And give him stomach for the day's debate, Entering a restaurant, with eager mien, Demands an ounce of bacon and a bean. The trembling waiter, by the statesman's eye Smitten with terror, hastens to comply; Nor chairs nor tables can his speed retard, For famine's fixed and horrible regard He takes for menace. As he shaking flew, Lo! the portentous Pixley heaved in view! Before him yawned invisible the cell, Unheard, behind, the warden's footsteps fell. Thrice in convention rising to his feet, He thrice had been thrust back into his seat; Thrice had protested, been reminded thrice The nation had no need of his advice. Balked of his will to set the people right, His soul was gloomy though his hat was white, So fierce his mien, with provident accord The waiters swarmed him, thinking him a lord. He spurned them, roaring grandly to their chief:   "Give me (Fred. Crocker pays) a leg of beef!"   His wandering eye's deluminating flame Fell upon Gorham and the crisis came! For Pixley scowled and darkness filled the room Till Gorham's flashing orbs dispelled the gloom. The patrons of the place, by fear dismayed, Sprang to the street and left their scores unpaid. So, when Jove thunders and his lightnings gleam To sour the milk and curdle, too, the cream, And storm-clouds gather on the shadowed hill, The ass forsakes his hay, the pig his swill. Hotly the heroes now engaged—their breath Came short and hard, as in the throes of death. They clenched their hands, their weapons brandished high, Cut, stabbed, and hewed, nor uttered any cry, But gnashed their teeth and struggled on! In 

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