"
A bullet whistled at the victor's word,
And pierced the bosom of the lordly bird;
"Ah, tyrant!" shrieked he, "wherefore must I die?"
The Sportsman said, "thou art less strong than I."
And thus the world to might becomes the dower,
While justice yields before remorseless power.

[Illustration: "He blew a warlike trump
And marched to conquest--conquest of a pump." _Page_ 23.]

When distant ages rise to view our times,
Whate'er betide our _silv'ry_ flowing rhymes,
The brave we sing--Boeotian of the East
Will still survive to spread the mimic feast.
'Tis said in fables that Silenus old
To Midas lent the fatal gift of gold;
But Terminus, the god of rogues, has giv'n
Our hero gold unbless'd of man or heav'n.
'Mid all the tyrants of our age and clime,
He stands alone in infamy and crime;
Not e'en Thersites of the cunning tribe,
Gloried in guile like him we now describe.
Born of a race where thrift, with iron rod,
Taught punic faith and mocked the laws of God;
Where stern oppression held her impious reign,
And mild dissent was death with torturous pain;
His youth drank in the lessons of his race,
Which stamp'd their impress on his hideous face.

[Illustration: "Like Fallstaff, seeks repose and dreams of glory,
While Bethel's thunder peal'd another story." _Page_ 23.]

Old England's bard with epic fire illum'd
Tartarean pits, where fiends with darkness gloom'd;
But 'mid th' infernal host this face had shone,
Grimmest of all 'neath dread Armageddon.
The outward form proclaimed the inner man,
And frightened virtue fled where it began;
The heart, the head, there devils might fear to dwell,
Lest in their depths there lurked a deeper hell,
Does fiction, fancy, gild the picture drawn,
Hate cloud our judgment, truth give place to scorn?
Go seek the answer in the youth at school--
He scoffs at church and laughs at human rule.
A beggar,[1] he plays his _role_ with brazen cheek,
With equal ease _insurgent_ or a "sneak."

[Illustration: "Leaves gallant Winthrop to his mournful fate,
But takes the field when haply 'tis too late." _Page_ 23.]

A theologian, without doctor's chair,
He dons the gown t' escape the task of prayer.
"Heresiarch recant, or leave the school:"
A recantation proved the knave no fool.[2]
Behold him later in another sphere,
Where thieves abound and murderers appear;
Tricked out in low and meretricious art,
He pl