There's a story somewhere told,
By a fellow grave and old,

Which, just now, is rather pat.
I bethink me of his name-
Plutarch-and of lives the same
Had as many as a cat.

In the little state of Athens
Was a usage, there and then
Practiced by those classic heathens,
Rather hard on public men.
Whatsoe'er the service past,

If they happened to distrust 'em-
Thought 'em getting on too fast—
'Twas, it seems, the pleasant custom
Just an oyster-shell to shy
(Sans a wherefore or a why)
Into a ballot-box huge and high-
With whatever name upon it,
Chanced the elector's mind to strike,
(Sulking, like a jealous noddy,
O'er his Norways and his toddy,)—
Well, the name of anybody
That he didn't chance to like.

And the gentleman who won it-— Such election-(held to tell

What the free enlightened wished) Was, in fact, considered dished, And served out on the half-shell! And must needs, at any rate, Draw a line in double-quick, Mizzle, vamos, cut his stick, And absquatulate!

Simple and ingenious scheme!

Of split tickets there were none— (Though the bivalve you might deem Suited well for such extreme)

Hard or Soft Shell-all were one!

Once, while thus with general clamor
Athens eased her factious heart-
When the smith forsook his hammer,
And the huckster left his mart-
Past the scene of noisy riot,

Clatter of shells and windy talk,
Aristides, calm and quiet,

Chanced to take a morning walk.

Musing, in his wonted fashion,

On the double care of stateOn the Demos' fickle passion, And the cold patrician hate—

When a voter pressed beside him,
Saying, "Stranger, can you spell
Aristides? Wal, jest write him,
Square and straight, on this here shell."

Smiling, cheery as a cricket,

Wrote the old Republican

Then, as he returned the ticket,

Asked "And what's his crime, my man?"

"Wal, not much," said Snooks, appearing

Puzzled, "only I'll be cussed

But I'm sick to death of hearing

That old critter called 'The Just!"

PARRICIDE

Julia Ward Howe

(Abraham Lincoln-April 14th, 1865)

O'ER the warrior gauntlet grim
Late the silken glove we drew,
Bade the watch-fires slacken dim
In the dawn's auspicious hue.

Stayed the armed heel;

Still the clanging steel;

Joys unwonted thrilled the silence through.

Gladly drew the Easter tide;

And the thoughts of men anew
Turned to Him who spotless died

For the peace that none shall rue.
Out of mortal pain

This abiding strain

Issued: "Peace, my peace I give to you."

Musing o'er the silent strings,
By their apathy oppressed,
Waiting for the spirit-wings
To be touched and soul-possessed.
"I am dull," I said:

"Treason is not dead;

Still in ambush lurks the shivering guest."

Then a woman's shriek of fear
Smote us in its arrowy flight;
And a wonder wild and drear
Did the hearts of men unite.
Has the seed of crime

Reached its flowering-time,

That it shoots to this audacious height?

Then, as frosts the landscape change,
Stiffening from the summer's glow,
Grew the jocund faces strange,
Lay the loftiest emblem low:
Kings are of the past,

Suffered still to last;

These twin crowns the present did bestow.

Fair assassin, murder white,
With thy serpent speed avoid
Each unsullied household light,
Every conscience unalloyed.

Neither heart nor home

Where good angels come Suffer thee in nearness to abide.

Slanderer of the gracious brow,
The untiring blood of youth,
Servant of an evil vow,

Of a crime that beggars ruth,

Treason was thy dam,

Wolfling, when the Lamb,

The Anointed, met thy venomed tooth.

With the righteous did he fall,

With the sainted doth he lie;

While the gibbet's vultures call

Thee, that, 'twixt the earth and sky,

Disavowed of both

In their Godward troth,

Thou mayst make thy poor amend, and die.

If it were my latest breath,
Doomed his bloody end to share,
I would brand thee with his death
As a deed beyond despair.

Since the Christ was lost

For a felon's cost,

None like thee of vengeance should beware.

Leave the murderer, noble song,
Helpless in the toils of fate:
To the just thy meeds belong,
To the martyr, to the state,

When the storms beat loud
Over sail and shroud,

Tunefully the seaman cheers his mate.

Never tempest lashed the wave
But to leave it fresher calm;
Never weapon scarred the brave
But their blood did purchase balm.
God hath writ on high

Such a victory

As uplifts the nation with its psalm.

Honor to the heart of love,

Honor to the peaceful will,

Slow to threaten, strong to move,

Swift to render good for ill!

Glory crowns his end,

And the captive's friend

From his ashes makes us freemen still.