Ye will not heed the warning breath;
No vision strikes your clouded eye,
To break the sleep that wakes in death.
The Last Prophecy of Cassandra.
“By Zhorzhe!” as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,
You tell me they’re dead, but I know it’s a lie;
Is Jackson not President? What was’t you said?
It can’t be; you’re joking; what,—all of ’em dead?
Once More.