On purpose to harrow her soul;
She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her,
At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.
The sword never seems to alarm her,
That hangs on a peg to the wall,
And she doats on thy rusty old armor
Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,--
Poor Kitty was quite out of breath,--
And trampled, in anger and scorning,
A bonnet and feathers to death.
But hark,--I've a part in the Stranger,--
There's the Prompter's detestable call:
Come, Clarence,--our Romeo and Ranger,
We want you at Fustian Hall.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES

Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diccret, Si quid opus caset, "nunc quidem
paullulum," inquit, "a sole."--_Cicero Tusc. Disp._

Slowly the monarch turned aside;
But when his glance of youthful pride
Rested upon the warriors gray
Who bore his lance and shield that day,
And the long line of spears that came
Through the far grove like waves of flame,
His forehead burned, his pulse beat high,
More darkly flashed his shifting eye,
And visions of the battle-plain
Came bursting on his soul again.

The old man drew his gaze away
Right gladly from that long array,
As if their presence were a blight
Of pain and sickness to his sight;
And slowly folding o'er his breast
The fragments of his tattered vest,
As was his wont, unasked, unsought
Gave to the winds his muttered thought,
Naming no name of friend or foe,
And reckless if they heard or no.

"Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing,
Puppet, which mortals call a king,
Adorning thee with idle gems,
With drapery and diadems,
And scarcely guessing, that beneath
The purple robe and laurel wreath,
There's nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime:--
My rags are not so rich,--but they
Will serve as well to cloak decay.

"And ever round thy jeweled brow
False slaves and falser friends will bow;
And Flattery,--as varnish flings
A baseness on the brightest things,--
Will make the monarch's deeds appear
All worthless to the monarch's ear,
Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame,
So vilely drest, is worse than shame!--
The gods be thanked for all their mercies,
Diogenes hears naught but curses!

"And thou wilt banquet!--air and sea
Will render up their hoards for thee;
And golden cups for thee will hold
Rich nec