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OF" SEPTEMBER TERM 1887.
Why do we mourn to see the sun go down,
And leave black night to shadow earth and sea ?
Why do we sigh when sombre vapors frown
Upon the erst bright carpet of the lea ?
Why does the heart beat sadly when the waves
Bear us away to some far distant shore ?
Or when we gaze upon the moss-clad graves
Of loved ones gone,—gone, gone for evermore ?
E'en 'mid the joys of life, why do we mourn
The flight of Time—the furrows on our brow?
The days of youth—the joys forever gone,
The pains and cares that linger with us now ?
The true heart hungers for companionship,
Its pulses quicken in the blaze of wit;
It glows when smiles adorn the speaker's lip,
And eyes are by the rays of humor lit.
Mqn was not made to groan his life away ;
A hearty laugh is worth a gale of sighs ;
Grieving will turn the darkest locks to gray.
A happy heart leaps up to laughing eyes.
Experience brings wisdom to us all—
" Never too old to learn, " truly, tis said ;
Good-nature never wears a funeral pall,
And grim despair is pictured in the dead.
Now,-fellow jurors, having preached my creed,
I'll tune my harp strings up to concert pitch ;
And, if you smile, I will be paid indeed
In grins or groans, dear friends, I don't care which.
I've ventured once more to string up my lyre,
(Not a sharp lawyer or an auctioneer,)
Hoping to feel again youth's nerve of fire,
Sending quaint thoughts into the listner's ear.
Day after day—often in stilly night,
Your poet scratches his snow-whitened noddle ;
To fix some tough and knotty question right,
To clear away the rubbish and the muddle.
A juryman—and ancient rhymster, too—
Two different occupations—surely they;
The first to bring the hidden truth to view,
The next a plan to steal men's thoughts away.
Our jury is a bright array of tribes
Dappled :—sometimes the bald win many thanks
For being brief, and not accepting bribes
To add a son to our " no quorum "ranks.
The witnesses are frequently " done brown, "
The Bishop hears the perjured ones confess ;
Edward will sometimes hand cheese all around ;
A doll, field yields fin^babies—more or less.
One Gilpin ran a race agkinst his will,
A gormandizer, history says, was he,
As well as falconer, his game to kill.
Stieff as a lightning rod could be.
He tried to cook the bird but hews it up,
Or tries to Hew it—found it rather tough ;
He collars it, and takes it home to sup,
But gushed it off because he had enough.
Now, gentlemen, I've punished you with puns,
They're doubtless, far-fetched,—but I'll father them ;
And some of them are " rank as butter'd buns, "
But, for hard work, I claim the diadem.
Please call the roll, friend Addison. You'll find
You have a quorum for the jury's business;
The puns, perhaps, were better underlined.
To twist the mouth would cause a painful dizziness.
There are but eight delinquents—dock their pay,
The aides of Justice should be watchful men ;
They will be prompt on every banquet day,
I'll warrant you—they will be present then.
For, when the stomach's empty, 'twill complain ;
The nose is apt to aggravate desire ;
It snuffs the air—nor does it snuff in vain,—
The cook is busy at the kitchen fire.
And now I've punished you with puns enough.
Wise men should wear a stern and thoughtful look,
And never smile at jokers' wordy stuff,
But sternly say—" Come up, sir; kiss the book. "
We all know witnesses can forge big lies,
And no compunction feel while forging them ; ,
They flash defiance from their goggle eyes,
As if their brows lose Truth's bright diadem.
God only knows when we may meet again,
Perhaps 'twill be before the Judge of all,
Presenting there our plea of grief and pain,
And hear His sentence—proudly to rise—or fall.
A tough old heart I freely give to you,
And when its sluggish pulse shall cease to beat,
My latest breath shall bear my sad adieu,
Until we gather at the Master's feet.
ADDENDUM.
Vain the attempt for me my brains to bore,
And fashion puns on such names as McConkey,
Rollins, and Hancock—Connelly, Dittman, Mohr,
Eichler\ you'd say I rode a kicking donkey :
They all are honest men—no doubt of it—
(A 11011 est man is he who is not here ;)
Good jurors, too—they catch the sparks of wit,
And votes by eyes and nose—that fact is clear.
JOHN H. HEWITT.
Baltimore, December 1887.
KANZSCHE &C i PRIWI