I drew aside the Future’s veil And saw upon his bier The poet Whitman. Loud the wail And damp the falling tear. 'He’s dead-he is no more!' one cri…

Goddess of Liberty! O thou Whose tearless eyes behold the cha… And look unmoved upon the slain, Eternal peace upon thy brow,- Before thy shrine the races press,

‘The world is dull,’ I cried in m… ‘Its myths and fables are no longe… ’Roll back thy centuries, O Fathe… To Greece transport me in her gol… 'Give back the beautiful old Gods…

Charles Shortridge once to St. P… ‘Down!’ cried the saint with his f… ‘Tis writ that every hardy liar Shall dwell forever and ever in fi… 'That’s what I said the night tha…

A reporter he was, and he wrote, w… “The grave was covered as thick as… With floral tributes”—which readin… The editor man he said, he did so: “For 'floral tributes’ he’s got fo…

O Abner Doble-whose 'catarrhal na… Budd of that ilk might envy-'tis a… Rude thing to say, but it is plain… Your name is to be sneezed at: its… Will 'fill the speaking trump of f…

Your influence, my friend, has gat… To east and west its tides encroac… There’ll be, on all God’s foot-st… No clean spot left for God to set…

Thus the poor ass whose appetite h… Known than the thistle any sweeter… Thinks all the world eats thistles… The wit and Mentor of the country… Grins through the collar of a hors…

The soft asphaltum in the sun; Betrays a tendency to run; Whereas the dog that takes his way Across its course concludes to sta…

Here lies Greer Harrison, a well… So small a tenant of so big a hous… He joyed in fighting with his eyes… Prudently pendent from a peaceful… And loved to loll on the Parnassi…

As sweet as the look of a lover Saluting the eyes of a maid That blossom to blue as the maid Is ablush to the glances above her… The sunshine is gilding the glade

No more the swindler singly seeks… To hunt in couples is the modern w… A rascal, from the public to purlo… An honest man to hide away the coi…

Good Parson Dickson preached, I’… A sermon-ah, ‘twas very old And very, very, bald! ’Twas all about-I know not what It was about, nor what ‘twas not.

Och! Father McGlynn, Ye appear to be in Fer a bit of a bout wid the Pope; An’ there’s divil a doubt But he’s knockin’ ye out

John Jackson, once a soldier bold… Hath still a martial feeling; So, when he sees a foe, behold! He charges him-with stealing. He cares not how much ground to-da…