Shapes of Clay Part 39

His bones are kept in a museum, And Tillman has his mind.

Stranger, uncover; here you have in view The monument of Chauncey M. Depew.

Eater and orator, the whole world round For feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned.

Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech, Nothing he knew excepting how to teach.

But in default of something to impart He multiplied his words with all his heart: When least he had to say, instructive most-- A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost.

Dining his way to eminence, he rowed With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed From lakes of favor--pulled with all his force And found each river sweeter than the source.

Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor, Gnawing and rising till obscure no more, He ate his way to eminence, and Fame Inscribes in gravy his immortal name.

A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly, So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly.

Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him, And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him.

Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie; Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why.

In '71 he filled the public eye, In '72 he bade the world good-bye, In G.o.d's good time, with a protesting sigh, He came to life just long enough to die.

Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay, Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray.

He joined the great Order and studied with zeal The awful arcana he meant to reveal.

At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell-- There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell.

A HYMN OF THE MANY.

G.o.d's people sorely were oppressed, I heard their lamentations long;-- I hear their singing, clear and strong, I see their banners in the West!

The captains shout the battle-cry, The legions muster in their might; They turn their faces to the light, They lift their arms, they testify:

"We sank beneath the Master's thong, Our chafing chains were ne'er undone;-- Now clash your lances in the sun And bless your banners with a song!

"G.o.d bides his time with patient eyes While tyrants build upon the land;-- He lifts his face, he lifts his hand, And from the stones his temples rise.

"Now Freedom waves her joyous wing Beyond the foemen's shields of gold.

March forward, singing, for, behold, The right shall rule while G.o.d is king!"

ONE MORNING.

Because that I am weak, my love, and ill, I cannot follow the impatient feet Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill The hour appointed for the air to thrill And brighten at your coming. O my sweet, The tale of moments is at last complete-- The tryst is broken on the gusty hill!

O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed, The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not; Think rather that the clock and sun have lied And all too early, you have sought the spot.

For lo! despair has darkened all the light, And till I see your face it still is night.

AN ERROR.

Good for he's old? Ah, Youth, you do not dream How sweet the roses in the autumn seem!

AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT."

You 're grayer than one would have thought you: The climate you have over there In the East has apparently brought you Disorders affecting the hair, Which--pardon me--seems a thought spare.

You'll not take offence at my giving Expression to notions like these.

You might have been stronger if living Out here in our sanative breeze.

It's unhealthy here for disease.

No, I'm not as plump as a pullet.

But that's the old wound, you see.

Remember my paunching a bullet?-- And how that it didn't agree With--well, honest hardtack for me.

Just pa.s.s me the wine--I've a h.e.l.ly And horrible kind of drouth!

When a fellow has that in his belly Which didn't go in at his mouth He's hotter than all Down South!

Great Scott! what a nasty day _that_ was-- When every galoot in our crack Division who didn't lie flat was Dissuaded from further attack By the bullet's felicitous whack.

'Twas there that our major slept under Some cannon of ours on the crest, Till they woke him by stilling their thunder, And he cursed them for breaking his rest, And died in the midst of his jest.

That night--it was late in November-- The dead seemed uncommonly chill To the touch; and one chap I remember Who took it exceedingly ill When I dragged myself over his bill.

Well, comrades, I'm off now--good morning.

Your talk is as pleasant as pie, But, pardon me, one word of warning: Speak little of self, say I.

That's my way. G.o.d bless you. Good-bye.

THE KING OF BORES.

Abundant bores afflict this world, and some Are bores of magnitude that-come and--no, They're always coming, but they never go-- Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum Their lurid nonsense like a m.u.f.fled drum, Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow.

But one superb tormentor I can show-- Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum.

He the johndonkey is who, when I pen Amorous verses in an idle mood To n.o.body, or of her, reads them through And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood This tender sonnet's application too.

HISTORY.