SAMUEL SHORTRIDGE


Like a worn mother he attempts in vain
To still the unruly Crier of his brain:
The more he rocks the cradle of his chin
The more uproarious grows the brat within.




SURPRISED


"O son of mine age, these eyes lose their fire:
Be eyes, I pray, to thy dying sire."

"O father, fear not, for mine eyes are bright--
I read through a millstone at dead of night."

"My son, O tell me, who are those men,
Rushing like pigs to the feeding-pen?"

"Welcomers they of a statesman grand.
They'll shake, and then they will pocket; his hand."