You lifted up your Jovian head
And everlooked the State.

As one made leisurely awake,
You lightly rubbed your eyes
And answered: "Thank you--please to make
A note of my surprise.

"But who are they who skulk aside,
As to get out of reach,
And in their clothing strive to hide
Three thousand dollars each?

"Not members of your body, sure?
No, that can hardly be:
All statesmen, I suppose, are pure.
What! there are rogues? Dear me!"

You added, you'll recall, that though
You were surprised and pained,
You thought, upon the whole, you'd go,
And in that mind remained.

Now, what so great a change has wrought
That you so frankly speak
Of "seeking" honors once unsought
Because you "scorned to seek"?

Do you not fear the grave reproof
In good Creed Haymond's eye?
Will Stephen Gage not stand aloof
And pass you coldly by?

O, fear you not that Vrooman's lich
Will rise from earth and point
At you a scornful finger which
May lack, perchance, a joint?

Go, Stanford, where the violets grow,
And join their modest train.
Await the work of William Stow
And be surprised again.

THE SUBDUED EDITOR

Pope-choker Pixley sat in his den
A-chewin' upon his quid.
He thought it was Leo Thirteen, and then
He bit it intenser, he did.

The amber which overflew from the cud
Like rivers which burst out of bounds--
'Twas peculiar grateful to think it blood
A-gushin' from Papal wounds.

A knockin' was heard uponto the door
Where some one a-waitin' was.
"Come in," said the shedder of priestly gore,
Arrestin' to once his jaws.

The person which entered was curly of hair
And smilin' as ever you see;
His eyes was blue, and uncommon fair
Was his physiognomee.

And yet there was some'at remarkable grand--
And the editor says as he looks:
"Your Height" (it was Highness, you understand,
That he meant, but he spoke like books)--

"Your Height, I am in. I'm the editor man
Of this paper--which is to say,
I'm the owner, too, and it's alway ran
In the independentest way!

"Not a damgaloot can interfere,
A-shapin' my course for me:
This paper's (and nothing can make it veer)
Pixleian in policee!"

"It's little to me," said the sunny youth,
"If journals is better or worse
Where I am to home they won't keep, in truth,
The climate is that perverse.

"I've come, howsomever, your mind to light
With a more superior