The Moslem smiled securely and replied:
‘No Greek has ever for his country dyed.’
While thus each patriot guarded his frontier,
The Powers stole all the country in his rear.
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‘Why, Goldenson, you’re looking very well.’
He entered that serene assassin’s cellAnd hung his hat and coat upon a nail.‘I think that life in this secluded spotAgrees with men of your trade, does it not?’‘Well, yes,’ said Goldenson, ‘I can’t complain:Life anywhere-provided it is mine-Agrees with me; but I observe with painThat still the people murmur and repine.It hurts their sense…
O, hadst thou died when thou wert great,
To sob the gratitude it feltAnd thank the Saviour of the State,Gods might have envied thee thy fate!Then was the laurel round thy brow,And friend and foe spoke praise of thee,While all our hearts sang victory.Alas! thou art too base to bowTo hide the shame that brands it now.
What! ‘Out of danger?’ Can the slighted Dame
Will Treachery caress my hand no more,Nor Hatred lie alurk about my door?-Ingratitude, with benefits dismissed,Not understanding what ’tis all about,Will Envy henceforth not retaliateFor virtues it were vain to emulate?Will Ignorance my knowledge fail to scout,Not understanding what ’tis all about,Yet feeling in its light so mean and smallThat all his little soul is…
Daughter of God! Audacity divine
Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool,Not thine of idiots the vocal drool:Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass,Presumption, actuates the charging ass.Sky-born Audacity! of thee who singsShould strike with freer hand than mine the strings;The notes should mount on pinions true and strong,For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song,Till angels lean…
The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth,
O that my mother at my birthHad borne a stranger!The flooded ground is all around.The depth uncommon.How blest I’d be if only sheHad borne a salmon.If still denied the solar glow‘T were bliss ecstaticTo be amphibious-but O,To be aquatic!We’re worms, men say, o’ the dust, and theyThat faith are firm of.O, then, be just: show…
Dear Bruner, once we had a little talk
About the manner of your moral walk:How devious the trail you made in stalking,On level ground, your law-protected game‘Another’s Dollar’ is, I think, its name.Your crooked course more recently is notSo blamable; for, truly, you have stumbledOn evil days; and ’tis your luckless lotTo traverse spaces (with a spirit humbled,Contrite, dejected and divinely sad)Where, ’tis…