Religion looked upon you, too,
With thoughts untender.
The Press to you was cold as snow,
For sin you'd always call so.
In Politics you were _de trop_,
In Morals also.
All this is accurately true
And, faith! there might be more said;
But--well, to save your thrapple you
Fled, as aforesaid.
You're down in Mexico--that's plain
As that the sun is risen;
For Daniel Burns, down there, his chain
Drags round in prison.
ONE JUDGE
Wallace, created on a noble plan
To show us that a Judge can be a Man;
Through moral mire exhaling mortal stench
God-guided sweet and foot-clean to the Bench;
In salutation here and sign I lift
A hand as free as yours from lawless thrift,
A heart--ah, would I truly could proclaim
My bosom lighted with so pure a flame!
Alas, not love of justice moves my pen
To praise, or to condemn, my fellow men.
Good will and ill its busy point incite:
I do but gratify them when I write.
In palliation, though, I'd humbly state,
I love the righteous and the wicked hate.
So, sir, although we differ we agree,
Our work alike from persecution free,
And Heaven, approving you, consents to me.
Take, therefore, from this not all useless hand
The crown of honor--not in all the land
One honest man dissenting from the choice,
Nor in approval one Fred.
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