Shapes of Clay Part 11

"The song I hear, the crown I see, And know that G.o.d is love.

Farewell, dark world--I go to be A postmaster above!"

For him no monumental arch, But, O, 'tis good and brave To see the Grand Old Party march To office o'er his grave!

THE DEATH OF GRANT.

Father! whose hard and cruel law Is part of thy compa.s.sion's plan, Thy works presumptuously we scan For what the prophets say they saw.

Unbidden still the awful slope Walling us in we climb to gain a.s.surance of the s.h.i.+ning plain That faith has certified to hope.

In vain!--beyond the circling hill The shadow and the cloud abide.

Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide To trust the Record and be still.

To trust it loyally as he Who, heedful of his high design, Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, But wrought thy will unconsciously,

Disputing not of chance or fate, Nor questioning of cause or creed; For anything but duty's deed Too simply wise, too humbly great.

The cannon syllabled his name; His shadow s.h.i.+fted o'er the land, Portentous, as at his command Successive cities sprang to flame!

He fringed the continent with fire, The rivers ran in lines of light!

Thy will be done on earth--if right Or wrong he cared not to inquire.

His was the heavy hand, and his The service of the despot blade; His the soft answer that allayed War's giant animosities.

Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, Fill, Father, with another light, That we may see with clearer sight Thy servant's soul in Paradise.

THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED.

Of Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) The Muse of History records That he'd get drunk as twenty lords.

He'd get so truly drunk that men Stood by to marvel at him when His slow advance along the street Was but a vain cycloidal feat.

And when 'twas fated that he fall With a wide geographical sprawl, They signified a.s.sent by sounds Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds.

And yet this Mr. Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes When it was red or otherwise.

All malt, or spirituous, tope He loathed as cats dissent from soap; And cider, if it touched his lip, Evoked a groan at every sip.

But still, as heretofore explained, He not infrequently was grained.

(I'm not of those who call it "corned."

Coa.r.s.e speech I've always duly scorned.)

Though truth to say, and that's but right, Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!) Was what had put him in the mud, The only kind he used was blood!

Alas, that an immortal soul Addicted to the flowing bowl, The emptied flagon should again Replenish from a neighbor's vein.

But, Mr. Shanahan was so Constructed, and his taste that low.

Nor more deplorable was he In kind of thirst than in degree;

For sometimes fifty souls would pay The debt of nature in a day To free him from the shame and pain Of dread Sobriety's misreign.

His native land, proud of its sense Of his unique inabstinence, Abated something of its pride At thought of his unfilled inside.

And some the boldness had to say 'Twere well if he were called away To slake his thirst forevermore In oceans of celestial gore.

But Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Knew that his thirst was mortal; so Remained unsainted here below--

Unsainted and unsaintly, for He neither went to glory nor To abdicate his power deigned Where, under Providence, he reigned,

But kept his Boss's power accurst To serve his wild uncommon thirst.

Which now had grown so truly great It was a drain upon the State.

Soon, soon there came a time, alas!

When he turned down an empty gla.s.s-- All practicable means were vain His special wa.s.sail to obtain.

In vain poor Decimation tried To furnish forth the needful tide; And Civil War as vainly shed Her n.i.g.g.ard offering of red.

Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased Until he wished himself deceased, Invoked the firearm and the knife, But could not die to save his life!

He was so dry his own veins made No answer to the seeking blade; So parched that when he would have pa.s.sed Away he could not breathe his last.

'Twas then, when almost in despair, (Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair) He saw as in a dream a way To wet afresh his mortal clay.

Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Saw freedom, and with joy and pride "Thala.s.sa! (or Thalatta!)" cried.

Straight to the Aldermen went he, With many a "pull" and many a fee, And many a most corrupt "combine"

(The Press for twenty cents a line

Held out and fought him--O, G.o.d, bless Forevermore the holy Press!) Till he had franchises complete For trolley lines on every street!

The cars were builded and, they say, Were run on rails laid every way-- Rhomboidal roads, and circular, And oval--everywhere a car--

Square, dodecagonal (in great Esteem the shape called Figure 8) And many other kinds of shapes As various as tails of apes.

No other group of men's abodes E'er had such odd electric roads, That winding in and winding out, Began and ended all about.

No city had, unless in Mars, That city's wealth of trolley cars.

They ran by day, they flew by night, And O, the sorry, sorry sight!

And Hans Pietro Shanahan (Who was a most ingenious man) Incessantly, the Muse records, Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords!