ROBERT F. MORROW Dear man! although a stranger and… To soft affection’s humanizing glo… Although untaught how manly hearts… With more desires than the desire…

A spitcat sate on a garden gate And a snapdog fared beneath; Careless and free was his mien, an… Held a fiddle-string in his teeth. She marked his march, she wrought…

Did I believe the angels soon wou… You, my beloved, to the other shor… And I should never see you any mo… I love you so I know that I shoul… Into dejection utterly, and all

Ere Gabriel’s note to silence die… All graves of men were gaping wide… Then Charles A. Dana, of ‘The S… Rose slowly from the deepest one. ‘The dead in Christ rise first, ’…

God dreamed-the suns sprang flamin… And sailing worlds with many a ven… He woke-His smile alone illumined…

‘What are those, father?’ ‘States… Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild.’ ‘What are they that way for, fathe… ’Our candidate’s better,' they sai… ‘What did they say he was, father?…

O Buddha, had you but foreknown The vices of your priesthood It would have made you twist and m… As any wounded beast would. You would have damned the entire l…

I stood upon a hill. The setting… Was crimson with a curse and a por… And scarce his angry ray lit up th… That lay below, whose lurid gloom… Freaked with a moving mist, which,…

As in a dream, strange epitaphs I… Inscribed on yet unquarried stone, Where wither flowers yet unstrown The Campo Santo of the time to be…

God said, ‘Let there be Crime,’ a… Brought Satan, leading Stoneman b… 'Why, that’s Stupidity, not Crime… ‘Bring what I ordered.’ Satan wit… Replied, 'This is _one_ element-w…

Another Irish landlord gone to gr… Slain by the bullets of the tenant… Pray, good agrarians, what wrong r… Such foul redress? Between you an… All Ireland’s parted with an even…

Now Lonergan appears upon the boa… And Truth and Error sheathe their… No more in wordy warfare to engage… The commentators bow before the st… And bookworms, militant for ages p…

So, Parson Stebbins, you’ve relea… To say that here, and here, we pre… 'Tis a great thing an editor to sk… And hang his faulty pelt upon a na… (If over-eared, it has, at least,…

The trumpet sounded and the dead Came forth from earth and ocean, And Pickering arose and sped Aloft with wobbling motion. ‘What makes him fly lop-sided?’ cr…

‘Tis Master Fitch, the editor; He takes an holiday. Now wherefore, venerable sir, So resolutely gay? He lifts his head, he laughs aloud…