 | Poems of home and country |  |
126
POEM.
In nursery, college, work, fashion, and art;
In country and city, in village and mart;
In trade and mechanics, on land and on sea;
In climes ruled by despots, or ruled by the free;
Where flashes the flame of war's lurid glare;
Where wave the sweet banners of peace on the air;
In tropical heat, in the teeth of the cold,
With the youthful and fair, the wrinkled and old;
In circles polite, with the rough honest seamen;
In London, Berlin, Caffreland, and Van Dieman,—
It reigns over all, with a merciless sceptre,
Since Eve took the fruit,—O, had Adam but kept her,
Through grace, this great tyrant one triumph had lost,
And Earth's first temptation no sorrow had cost.
In country and city, in village and mart;
In trade and mechanics, on land and on sea;
In climes ruled by despots, or ruled by the free;
Where flashes the flame of war's lurid glare;
Where wave the sweet banners of peace on the air;
In tropical heat, in the teeth of the cold,
With the youthful and fair, the wrinkled and old;
In circles polite, with the rough honest seamen;
In London, Berlin, Caffreland, and Van Dieman,—
It reigns over all, with a merciless sceptre,
Since Eve took the fruit,—O, had Adam but kept her,
Through grace, this great tyrant one triumph had lost,
And Earth's first temptation no sorrow had cost.
I sing no new theme; everywhere you shall find it:
No force can resist, no fetters can bind it;
No genius of man can command it away;
No strength but must bow, its nod to obey;
No bribe, no condition, can limit the range
Of that power despotic, ubiquitous,—Change!
No force can resist, no fetters can bind it;
No genius of man can command it away;
No strength but must bow, its nod to obey;
No bribe, no condition, can limit the range
Of that power despotic, ubiquitous,—Change!
It comes in our troubles, our bondage to sever;
Without it would toothache be toothache forever.
It rouses, but calms, the wild billows at sea;
It gathers the storm, but compels it to flee;
Wakes daylight from gloom, and purples each ray
That beams in the west at the setting of day;
Spreads earth in the spring with a mantle of pride;
And whitens and jewels it o'er like a bride,
When the nuts have been cracked by the frosts of October,
And beauty autumnal, grown silent and sober,
Rests under the snow,—fair mantle, but strange,
Wrought to hide like a pall, the triumph of Change!
Without it would toothache be toothache forever.
It rouses, but calms, the wild billows at sea;
It gathers the storm, but compels it to flee;
Wakes daylight from gloom, and purples each ray
That beams in the west at the setting of day;
Spreads earth in the spring with a mantle of pride;
And whitens and jewels it o'er like a bride,
When the nuts have been cracked by the frosts of October,
And beauty autumnal, grown silent and sober,
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Wrought to hide like a pall, the triumph of Change!
We hate it; we love it, avoid it, or seek.
We praise what endures; yet, with attitude meek,
A change of condition we anxiously woo,—
Convinced 't will be better, if only 't is new.
We praise what endures; yet, with attitude meek,
A change of condition we anxiously woo,—
Convinced 't will be better, if only 't is new.
So begs the fair child, as he runs from his play,
And stands by the side of his grandmother gray,
To see the new volume of pictures just bought,
Of things never seen and of battles ne'er fought,
To turn every leaf, with the hastiest kiss,
In love with the next, impatient of this;
The glance of an instant, enough for his brain;
The scenery must then be shifted again.
The child, like a mirror, reflects but the man,—
Two sizes worked out on the very same plan.
And stands by the side of his grandmother gray,
To see the new volume of pictures just bought,
Of things never seen and of battles ne'er fought,
To turn every leaf, with the hastiest kiss,
In love with the next, impatient of this;
The glance of an instant, enough for his brain;
The scenery must then be shifted again.
The child, like a mirror, reflects but the man,—
Two sizes worked out on the very same plan.
The farmer, uneasy, is weary of toil,
Despises the slow-growing wealth of the soil;
Aspires to be rich in a day without work,
To eat like an alderman, smoke like a Turk.
Leaving turnips and hay, he sells buttons and braid.
He stocks a fine store, plays gymnastics in trade;
Talks wisely of tariffs and duties and laces,
Of cases of goods, and of fraudulent cases;
Drives a fine, fancy horse, buys a costly piano,
And frowns if they say his wealth smells of guano;
Consumes in one year what he gathered in ten,
And must climb from the foot of the ladder again.
Despises the slow-growing wealth of the soil;
Aspires to be rich in a day without work,
To eat like an alderman, smoke like a Turk.
Leaving turnips and hay, he sells buttons and braid.
He stocks a fine store, plays gymnastics in trade;
Talks wisely of tariffs and duties and laces,
Of cases of goods, and of fraudulent cases;
Drives a fine, fancy horse, buys a costly piano,
And frowns if they say his wealth smells of guano;
Consumes in one year what he gathered in ten,
And must climb from the foot of the ladder again.
He thought he should see his broad acres extend;
Have money in plenty, to use and to lend;
Take his wife to the mountains, the sea or the springs;
Wear broadcloth the finest, and costliest rings;
In talk about politics take his full share;
And live, dainty soul, untroubled by care,
In fashion recherché, a life without labor,
Assured of success, like some fortunate neighbor;—
But no farmer grows rich who sets up for a shirk,
Or aims, when turned merchant, to live without work.
Have money in plenty, to use and to lend;
Take his wife to the mountains, the sea or the springs;
Wear broadcloth the finest, and costliest rings;
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And live, dainty soul, untroubled by care,
In fashion recherché, a life without labor,
Assured of success, like some fortunate neighbor;—
But no farmer grows rich who sets up for a shirk,
Or aims, when turned merchant, to live without work.
The land swarms with men of that gaseous body,
The self-styled élite,—the American shoddy,
Raised up from the shop or the loom, in a day,
By arts reckoned honest, because “it will pay;”
But all things good and great, of human pursuit,
Are of patience and time the slow-growing fruit.
The gourd that grows swiftly, as swiftly may die;
The wealth quickly won, as quickly may fly;
The coral, reared up from the depths of the waves,
Where sea-monsters sport in their dim-lighted caves,
The effort of ages, built, grain upon grain,
Is slowly constructed, but long shall remain.
The self-styled élite,—the American shoddy,
Raised up from the shop or the loom, in a day,
By arts reckoned honest, because “it will pay;”
But all things good and great, of human pursuit,
Are of patience and time the slow-growing fruit.
The gourd that grows swiftly, as swiftly may die;
The wealth quickly won, as quickly may fly;
The coral, reared up from the depths of the waves,
Where sea-monsters sport in their dim-lighted caves,
The effort of ages, built, grain upon grain,
Is slowly constructed, but long shall remain.
So springs, with bright promise, the germ from the shell,
Where, hidden, it lay in its prison-like cell;
And, nurtured by sunlight, by heat, dew, and rain,
It waves on the hill, it smiles o'er the plain;
It drinks every morning the sweet-scented dew,
Still drinking, and growing, and drinking anew;
It bathes in the glory of noon-tide and even,
But slowly matures,—like mortals for heaven.
[OMITTED]
He whom pain cannot conquer, nor hardship can foil,
Grows great by endurance, grows nobler by toil;
And fragrant with good are the paths which he trod,
And grand is his rest in the bosom of God!
Where, hidden, it lay in its prison-like cell;
And, nurtured by sunlight, by heat, dew, and rain,
It waves on the hill, it smiles o'er the plain;
It drinks every morning the sweet-scented dew,
Still drinking, and growing, and drinking anew;
It bathes in the glory of noon-tide and even,
But slowly matures,—like mortals for heaven.
[OMITTED]
He whom pain cannot conquer, nor hardship can foil,
Grows great by endurance, grows nobler by toil;
And fragrant with good are the paths which he trod,
And grand is his rest in the bosom of God!
| Poems of home and country | |