The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)

Tho Tell's renown illumes the Alpine sky
Whose target was the Apple of his eye,
As much distinction, and applause to boot,
Should be bestowed on William's steady shoot:
More praise to him, than the Toxopholite,
Who held the apple but eschewed a bite!
The worst of us hath goodness in his breast;
The best of us but fails, put to the test,—
So, in arrears, we strive to pay the price
For Fortune's frowns or Fate's disastrous dice
Until we're bankrupt or too spent to wrest
Long hoped-for treasure from Mad Mammon's chest.
Tho life hath ups and downs, the weeping willow
Our ends shapes better than the downy pillow.
It takes stern measures to incline the bantling,
In right direction, without switch or scantling.
The optimist with farthings in his pouch,
Gets more enjoyment than the wealthy Grouch;
Thus cheerfulness, a product underrated,
In every household should be cultivated.
Give me the man who, tho in direst straits,
Will thumb his sharp proboscis at the Fates;
Who'll take the flimsy fire escape, or dive
Into the net, glad to get out alive;
Who, tho the skies be unpropitious, crowds
His way along, unmindful of the clouds;
Who never quits, in life's unequal bout,
But keeps on fighting till he's counted out.

THE SIXTH OF APRIL

Awake, Americans! Awake! Awake!
'Tis April Sixth! A year of War and yet
The Hun lines hold: Louvain is unavenged.
Be Thou our Guide, O God of Joshua!
Thru battles yet unstaged, and Comfort when,
From War's Inferno comes the phantom file,
The endless, ghastly file of martyred dead.

Daughters of Belgium, thy vestal tears
Make womanhood still more an honored name;
And Germany, when Reason reappears,
Must dearly pay for her revolting shame!

Awake, Americans! Our task is grim;
For Hell and all the Imps of Sin deride
The Code of Morals, spit upon the Cross,
Drive torturing nails into the bleeding flesh
Of all Mankind who follow Him thru paths
Made plain and gladsome by the Golden Rule;
And foist vile kultur as Refinement's height.

And what of skulking Sharks, scum of the sea,
That prey on Innocents, while o'er them fly
Poised to inflict a further agony,
The Vampire Bats that violate the sky?

Behold the ravaged homes of Serbia!
Where are her people? Ask the godless Goths
Whose Car of Kultur crushed beneath its wheels
This stalwart Race! Ask, too, the Bulgar hordes,
The mountain wolves, who pounce upon and rend,
In guise of Pacifiers of the Land,
Those who escaped the onslaughts of the Huns.

Tho sapped by hunger and disease; tho crushed
By overwhelming numbers of the foe,
Thy Star, O, Serb, when battles' din be hushed,
Shall rise again, suffused with Freedom's glow!

Now in the sacred name of God our guide,
Home, Country, Honor, Love and Motherhood,
Can we indifferent be to ravishment,
Wanton destruction, murder steeped in hate—
This loathsome litter whelped by Junkerdom?
'Tis ours to dare and crush this monstrous Thing:
Our Allies worn and bleeding, struggle on.

Armenian tears, a flood of pent-up grief,
Flow on and on, a torrent of despair.
Rape! Murder! Pillage! Is there no relief
For Niobe, deserted, weeping there?

Nation Invincible, unsheath thy blade!
God be thy leader: Justice be thy Sword!
Nor pause until the ruthless Beast is flayed
With sated steel—and Liberty restored!

BENEATH A CLOUD

Under a passing cloud the moon was hid.
I really was delighted to be rid
Of Super light, for I was with my Nell,
And I could see by her bright eyes as well.
We didn't need the aid of spheres above,
For that's our proper sphere—a making love.
Midst whispering pines we pledged our love aloud,
And thus our plight began beneath a cloud.

THE COLUMBIAD