By your heritage of guilt;
By the blood that you have spilt;
By the Law that you have broken;
By the terrible red token
  That you bear upon your brow;
By the awful sentence spoken
  And irrevocable vow
Which consigns you to a living
Death and to the unforgiving
Furies who avenge your crime
Through the periods of time;
By that dread eternal doom
Hinted in your future’s gloom,
  As the flames infernal tell
Of their power and perfection
In their wavering reflection
  On the battlements of Hell;
By the mercy you denied,
  I condemn your guilty soul
In your body to abide,
  Like a serpent in a hole!

THE SUNSET GUN.

Off Santa Cruz the western wave
  Was crimson as with blood: 
The sun was sinking to his grave
  Beneath that angry flood.

Sir Walter Turnbull, brave and stout,
  Then shouted, “Ho! lads; run—­
The powder and the ball bring out
  To fire the sunset gun.

“That punctual orb did ne’er omit
  To keep, by land or sea,
Its every engagement; it
  Shall never wait for me.”

Behold the black-mouthed cannon stand,
  Ready with charge and prime,
The lanyard in the gunner’s hand. 
  Sir Walter waits the time.

The glowing orb sinks in the sea,
  And clouds of steam aspire,
Then fade, and the horizon’s free. 
  Sir Walter thunders:  “Fire!”

The gunner pulls—­the lanyard parts
  And not a sound ensues. 
The beating of ten thousand hearts
  Was heard at Santa Cruz!

Off Santa Cruz the western wave
  Was crimson as with blood;
The sun, with visage stern and grave,
  Came back from out the flood.

THE “VIDUATE DAME”

’Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe,
  And she goeth upon the spree,
And red are cheeks of the bystanders
  For her acts are light and free.

In a seven-ounce costume
  The widow of Thomas Blythe,
Y-perched high on the window ledge,
  The difficult can-can tryeth.

Ten constables they essay
  To bate the dame’s halloing. 
With the widow of Thomas Blythe
  Their hands are overflowing,

And they cry:  “Call the National Guard
  To quell this parlous muss—­
For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe
  Are upon the spree and us!”

O long shall the eerie tale be told
  By that posse’s surviving tithe;
And with tears bedewed he’ll sing this rude
  Ballad of the widow of Thomas Blythe.

FOUR OF A KIND

ROBERT F. MORROW