Attorney Knight, defending Powell, you,
To earn your fee, so energetic grew
(So like a hound, the pride of all the pack,
Clapping your nose upon the dead man’s track
To run his faults to earth—­at least proclaim
At vacant holes the overtaken game)
That men who marked you nourishing the tongue,
And saw your arms so vigorously swung,
All marveled how so light a breeze could stir
So great a windmill to so great a whirr! 
Little they knew, or surely they had grinned,
The mill was laboring to raise the wind.

Ralph Smith a “shoulder-striker”!  God, O hear
This hardy man’s description of thy dear
Dead child, the gentlest soul, save only One,
E’er born in any land beneath the sun. 
All silent benefactions still he wrought: 
High deed and gracious speech and noble thought,
Kept all thy law, and, seeking still the right,
Upon his blameless breast received the light.

“Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints,” he cried
Whose wrath was deep as his comparison wide—­
Milton, thy servant.  Nay, thy will be done: 
To smite or spare—­to me it all is one. 
Can vengeance bring my sorrow to an end,
Or justice give me back my buried friend? 
But if some Milton vainly now implore,
And Powell prosper as he did before,
Yet ’twere too much that, making no ado,
Thy saints be slaughtered and be slandered too. 
So, Lord, make Knight his weapon keep in sheath,
Or do Thou wrest it from between his teeth!

UNARMED

Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate,
When Stephen M. White arrived in state.

“Admit me.”  “With pleasure,” Peter said,
Pleased to observe that the man was dead;

“That’s what I’m here for.  Kindly show
Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.”

White stared in blank surprise.  Said he
“I run this place—­just turn that key.”

“Yes?” said the Saint; and Stephen heard
With pain the inflection of that word.

But, mastering his emotion, he
Remarked:  “My friend, you’re too d——­ free;

“I’m Stephen M., by thunder, White!”
And, “Yes?” the guardian said, with quite

The self-same irritating stress
Distinguishing his former yes.

And still demurely as a mouse
He twirled the key to that Upper House.

Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain
Admittance to those halls to gain,

Said, neighborly:  “Pray tell me.  Pete,
Does any one contest my seat?”

The Saint replied:  “Nay, nay, not so;
But you voted always wrong below: 

“Whate’er the question, clear and high
You’re voice rang:  ‘I,’ ‘I,’ ever ‘I.’”

Now indignation fired the heart
Of that insulted immortal part.

“Die, wretch!” he cried, with blanching lip,
And made a motion to his hip,