"Purification of politics
Is an iridescent dream,"
Is the Ingalls way of saying that
Corruption's power's supreme.
Have the people lost their honesty,
Has the Nation sunk so low,
That partisan strife can blind our eyes
Till we know not friend from foe?
If such be true, this fair land of ours
Must fail to mature the Hope
That blossomed fair on Liberty's tree,
But in impotence must grope.
Beautiful land! God's own favored land!
Thy sons must united be,
Statesmen should now hold the public helm,
Throw factions into the sea,
Teach politicians with all their schemes,
The people yet are supreme;
That Augean stables—politics—
May be cleansed by ballot's streams.
SUNSET.
Softly the tints of expiring day
Tinge th' vaults of Hesperian heaven,
Leaving a trace of the sun's mellow ray
To escort the shadows of even.
All of the gates of Phoebus are drawn,
Yet his splendor has left to sight
A trail of enchantment to linger till dawn,
To charm the still hours of the night.
Scenes of such cloud-land often reveal
A grandeur that augments the soul;
Heaven has no beauties it seeks to conceal,
No secrets inscribed on its scroll.