Dear man! although a stranger and a foe
To soft affection’s humanizing glow;
Although untaught how manly hearts may throb
With more desires than the desire to rob;
Although as void of tenderness as wit,
And owning nothing soft but Maurice Schmitt;
Although polluted, shunned and in disgrace,
You fill me with a passion to embrace! 
Attentive to your look, your smile, your beck,
I watch and wait to fall upon your neck. 
Lord of my love, and idol of my hope,
You are my Valentine, and I’m
                                         A ROPE.

ALFRED CLARKE JR.

Illustrious son of an illustrious sire—­
Entrusted with the duty to cry “Fire!”
And call the engines out, exert your power
With care.  When, looking from your lofty tower,
You see a ruddy light on every wall,
Pause for a moment ere you sound the call: 
It may be from a fire, it may be, too,
From good men’s blushes when they think of you.

JUDGE RUTLEDGE

Sultan of Stupids! with enough of brains
To go indoors in all uncommon rains,
But not enough to stay there when the storm
Is past.  When all the world is dry and warm,
In irking comfort, lamentably gay,
Keeping the evil tenor of your way,
You walk abroad, sweet, beautiful and smug,
And Justice hears you with her wonted shrug,
Lifts her broad bandage half-an-inch and keeps
One eye upon you while the other weeps.

W.H.L.  BARNES

Happy the man who sin’s proverbial wage
Receives on the instalment plan—­in age. 
For him the bulldog pistol’s honest bark
Has naught of terror in its blunt remark. 
He looks with calmness on the gleaming steel—­
If e’er it touched his heart he did not feel: 
Superior hardness turned its point away,
Though urged by fond affinity to stay;
His bloodless veins ignored the futile stroke,
And moral mildew kept the cut in cloak. 
Happy the man, I say, to whom the wage
Of sin has been commuted into age. 
Yet not quite happy—­hark, that horrid cry!—­
His cruel mirror wounds him in the eye!

RECONCILIATION

Stanford and Huntington, so long at outs,
Kissed and made up.  If you have any doubts
Dismiss them, for I saw them do it, man;
And then—­why, then I clutched my purse and ran.

A VISION OF CLIMATE

I dreamed that I was poor and sick and sad,
  Broken in hope and weary of my life;
My ventures all miscarrying—­naught had
  For all my labor in the heat and strife. 
  And in my heart some certain thoughts were rife
Of an unsummoned exit.  As I lay
  Considering my bitter state, I cried: 
“Alas! that hither I did ever stray. 
  Better in some fair country to have died
Than live in such a land, where Fortune never
(Unless he be successful) crowns Endeavor.”