reigns I'm thought a witIn giving words the funny hit;
And social glee and humorous song
Delight the fools that round me throng;
Till Porter puts on the crown,
And hauls the Cleveland banner down.
Now all is calm, discreet, and wise,
Whate'er I do, whate'er devise;
What common sence and wisdom teach,
Directs my actions, forms my speech;
The wise and good around me stay,
And laughing dunces hie away.
But soon, alas, this happy vein
May for some other change again!
Sewell perchance shall next bear rule:
I'm now a philosophic fool!
With Jefferson I correspond,
And sail with him, the stars beyond:
Each nerve and fibre of my brain,
To sense profound I nicely strain,
And thus uprise beyond the ken
Of common sence and common men.
Thus great am I, till Sewell's crown
About my ears comes tumbling down.
Wise fools may soar themselves above,
And dream in rapturous spheres they move;
But airy castles must recoil,
And such wild imagery spoil.
But who comes now? Alas! 'tis Waters,
Rushing and blustering to headquarters:
He knows nor manners nor decorum,
But elbows headlong to the forum;
Uncouth and odd, abrupt and bold,
Unteachable and uncontrolled,
Devoid of wisdom, sence, or wit,
Not one thing right he ever hit,
Unless, by accident, not skill,
He blundered right against his will.
And such am I! no transmigration
Can sink me to a lower station:
Come, Porter, come depose the clown,
And, once for all, possess the crown.
If aught, in Sewell's blood, you find
Will make your own still more refined;
If found in Cleveland's blood, a trait
To aid you in affairs of state;
Select such parts – and spurn the rest,
No more to rule in brain or breast.
Of Waters' blood expel the whole,
Let not one drop pollute my soul:
Then rule my head – and keep my heart
From folly, weakness, wit apart:
With all such gifts I glad dispense,
But only leave me – Common Sense.
As a wit, Mr. Cleveland's reputation has been immortalized by a few sentences that are frequently quoted, and which the writer furnished to the Editor's Drawer, Harper's Monthly Magazine, August, 1885. Mr. Cleveland was a Federalist of the school of Jay and Hamilton, whom he supported with more than ordinary zeal, and perhaps not without something of the prejudice which ranked all Jeffersonians with French fatalists and infidels. On horseback one day Mr. Cleveland was riding from Middletown to Durham; a little stream bounded the limits of the townships. He halted to water his horse; meanwhile a young man, having come from the opposite direction, drew rein so suddenly in the midst of the brook as to render the water unfit to drink.
"Good-morning, Mr. Minister," said the youth.
"Good-morning, Mr. Democrat," replied the reverend gentleman.
"And pray why do you take me for a Democrat?" queried the young man.
"Pray why did you take me for a minister?" rejoined Mr. Cleveland.
"Oh," said the fellow, "that is plain enough – by your dress."
"And that you are a Democrat is plain enough by your address," was the retort of the preacher.
Mr. Cleveland was buried in New Haven, Conn., where he died suddenly, while paying a visit to friends in that city. He lies in the "New Haven City Burial Ground," the first cemetery in this country that was divided into family lots. The plot in which Mr. Cleveland was interred was at that time owned by Edmund French. Recently it was resold to William Franklin, a proviso of the transfer being that all previous interments should forever remain undisturbed. Two massive stones, of veinless white marble, mark the head and the foot of the scarcely perceptible mound. They are low and unpretentious. The larger is about two feet in height; the smaller is proportionally less tall. Erected but a short time ago, it is said that President Cleveland ordered them that he might mark the last earthly resting-place of his great-grandfather. The inscription reads:
A much loved, and respected, and stainless name is the inheritance that this man has left to his descendants.
THE SOLDIERS' DAY AT SHILOH
The wives and little ones at home who knelt one Sabbath morn,
And prayed for God to save our land, with battles rent and torn,
How little knew the quick reply, while yet they bent the knee,
In Shiloh's fierce and stubborn strife beside the Tennessee!
Oh, may they never cease to pray for our dear nation's good.
Till wrong no more shall lift a hand to claim the price of blood!
For heavy was the debt we paid in noble blood and true,
When Slavery cast the gage of war between the gray and blue.
Bright burst the dawn o'er Shiloh's field, as o'er the northland homes;
As o'er the worshippers that rose to seek their shining domes;
And gentle morn, that whispered low and woke the sleepers there,
Had almost led the soldier back the Sabbath joys to share,
When, lo! a murmur through the trees above the breezes came,
And shook the forest in our front with thunder-sound and flame!
Now all the dreams of peace and home in quick surprise dispelled;
Adown the line and far away the clamor rose and swelled!
Defenceless on a field of war – 'tis terrible in thought!
Then how the holy morn was changed for those who blindly fought!
At breakfast fire and forming line, their life-blood stained the green;
Before them flashed a fiery storm; behind, the river's sheen!
The army smitten in its camps, though flinching, rallied soon,
And steady rose the battle's roar on that red field ere noon,
While, mindful of their sad neglect, up came our generals then —
Alas! they could not form in rank the dead and dying men!
Against a crushing battle-tide right well we fought our ground;
Full oft
