Should squeeze her _nevermore_.

This pretty little pigeon said of course the true religion
Demanded ease of body before the mind could soar;
But that no emancipation could come unto our nation
Until the aggregation of the clothes that women wore
Were suspended from the shoulders, and smooth with many a gore,
Plain behind and plain before!

Her remarks were full of reason, but a little out of season,
And the proper tone of talking Mr. Fairman did restore,
When he sneered at priests and preaching, and indorsed
the _Index_ teaching,
And with philanthropic screeching, said he sought for evermore
The light of sense and freedom into darkened minds to pour;
Truly this, but something more!

Then with eyes as bright as Phoebus, and hair dark as Erebus,
A maid with stunning eye-glass next appeared upon the floor;
In her aspect she looked regal, though her words were few and feeble,
But she vowed his logic legal and as pure as golden ore,
And indorsed the _Index_ editor in every word he swore,
And then--said nothing more.

Then a tall and red-faced member, large and loose and somewhat limber
(And though his creed was shaky, he the name of Bishop bore),
Said that if he lived forever, he should forget, ah! never,
The Radicals so clever, in Boston by the shore;
But a bad _gold_ in his 'ead _bust_ stop his saying _bore_,
And we all cried _encore_.

* * * * *

Then a rarely gifted mortal, to whom the triple portal
Of Music, Art, and Poesy had opened years before,
With a look of sombre feeling, depths within his soul revealing,
Leaving room for no appealing, he decided o'er and o'er
The old, old vexing questions of the _why_ and the _wherefore_,
And taught us--nothing more.

There are others I could mention who took part in this contention,
And at first 'twas my intention, but at present I forbear;
There's young Look-sharp, and Wriggle, who would make an angel giggle,
And a young conceited Zeigel, who was seated near the door;
If you could only see them, you'd laugh till you were sore,
And then you'd laugh some more.

But, dear friends, I now must close, of these Radicals dispose,
For I am sad and weary as I view their folly o'er;
In