 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
53
THE FIRST OF MAY;
OR, THE CITY OF NEW YORK IN AN UPROAR.
The curtain rises, and the play begins—
Here at the corner, screened by oaken post,
The muse shall take her stand, and view the scene.
At every door, behold the ready cart
Receive its cumbrous load; the horse throws round
A glance of meek compassion, which to me
Speaks in a language, plain as brutes can speak,
“What a poor fool is man!” His driver swears,
Wives scold, dogs bark, cats mew, and children cry,
Pots break, chairs crack, pans ring, and jarring notes,
Of harshest discord, rise on every side.
Here at the corner, screened by oaken post,
The muse shall take her stand, and view the scene.
At every door, behold the ready cart
Receive its cumbrous load; the horse throws round
A glance of meek compassion, which to me
Speaks in a language, plain as brutes can speak,
“What a poor fool is man!” His driver swears,
Wives scold, dogs bark, cats mew, and children cry,
Pots break, chairs crack, pans ring, and jarring notes,
Of harshest discord, rise on every side.
There goes a matron with her looking-glass,
A legacy from mother to her child
For several generations, and she'll trust
None to remove it but her careful self.
But better had she stowed it on the cart
Where all her baggage rides; for fate has doomed,
(By sudden contact with a porter's load)
To dash the sacred treasure from her hand
On the unchristian pavements, where she views
Here scattered hopes in rude disorder spread,
Reflecting houses, passengers, and skies.
Here a full barrow, piled with feather-beds,
Pushed by a sturdy porter, runs you down,
Ere you can shun the danger; yonder goes
The sweating bearer of a precious load,
Baskets of chinaware, and sweetmeat jars,
And the cold relics of some late repast.
And here a lumbering cart moves slowly on,
Piled high with bureaus, bedsteads, tables, desks,
Chairs, cradle, rubbish, washtubs, kittles, pots,
Old empty barrels, benches, trammels, pans,
The fire-utensils, carpet-rags, old books,
And musty pamphlets, oil jugs, bottles, frames,
Mats, brooms, Dutch-oven, gridirons, griddles, jacks,
Trunks, piggins, toasters, pickle-pots, and all.
A legacy from mother to her child
For several generations, and she'll trust
None to remove it but her careful self.
But better had she stowed it on the cart
Where all her baggage rides; for fate has doomed,
(By sudden contact with a porter's load)
To dash the sacred treasure from her hand
54
Here scattered hopes in rude disorder spread,
Reflecting houses, passengers, and skies.
Here a full barrow, piled with feather-beds,
Pushed by a sturdy porter, runs you down,
Ere you can shun the danger; yonder goes
The sweating bearer of a precious load,
Baskets of chinaware, and sweetmeat jars,
And the cold relics of some late repast.
And here a lumbering cart moves slowly on,
Piled high with bureaus, bedsteads, tables, desks,
Chairs, cradle, rubbish, washtubs, kittles, pots,
Old empty barrels, benches, trammels, pans,
The fire-utensils, carpet-rags, old books,
And musty pamphlets, oil jugs, bottles, frames,
Mats, brooms, Dutch-oven, gridirons, griddles, jacks,
Trunks, piggins, toasters, pickle-pots, and all.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |