Shapes of Clay - Charles and Peter.

Ere Gabriel’s note to silence died
All graves of men were gaping wide.

Then Charles A. Dana, of “The Sun,”
Rose slowly from the deepest one.

“The dead in Christ rise first, ’t is writ,”
Quoth he—“ick, bick, ban, doe,—I’m It!”

(His headstone, footstone, counted slow,
Were “ick” and “bick,” he “ban” and “doe”:

Of beating Nick the subtle art
Was part of his immortal part.)

Then straight to Heaven he took his flight,
Arriving at the Gates of Light.

There Warden Peter, in the throes
Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose.

“Get up, you sluggard!” Dana cried—
“I’ve an engagement there inside.”

The Saint arose and scratched his head.
“I recollect your face,” he said.

“(And, pardon me, ’t is rather hard),
But——” Dana handed him a card.

“Ah, yes, I now remember—bless
My soul, how dull I am I—yes, yes,

“We’ve nothing better here than bliss.
Walk in. But I must tell you this:

“We’ve rest and comfort, though, and peace.”
“H’m—puddles,” Dana said, “for geese.

“Have you in Heaven no Hell?” “Why, no,”
Said Peter, “nor, in truth, below.

“’T is not included in our scheme—
’T is but a preacher’s idle dream.”

The great man slowly moved away.
“I’ll call,” he said, “another day.

“On earth I played it, o’er and o’er,
And Heaven without it were a bore.”

“O, stuff!—come in. You’ll make,” said Pete,
“A hell where’er you set your feet.”

1885.

CONTEMPLATION.

  I muse upon the distant town
    In many a dreamy mood.
  Above my head the sunbeams crown
    The graveyard’s giant rood.
  The lupin blooms among the tombs.
    The quail recalls her brood.

  Ah, good it is to sit and trace
    The shadow of the cross;
  It moves so still from place to place
    O’er marble, bronze and moss;
  With graves to mark upon its arc
    Our time’s eternal loss.

  And sweet it is to watch the bee
    That reve’s in the rose,
  And sense the fragrance floating free
    On every breeze that blows
  O’er many a mound, where, safe and sound,
    Mine enemies repose.