University of Virginia Library

UNCONSIDERED TRIFLES.

[There was a fire the other day]

There was a fire the other day,
And the bell in fury clanged away,
Making a loud and furious din,
Public cognizance to win.
Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!
The noise each moment rising higher,
While at the rope, with brawny hand,
A sturdy Irishman did stand.
The people rushed in wildest mood
To where the bellman, ringing, stood.
“O, where's the fire, my man?” said they;
“At the fire,” he said, and pulled away.
“And where, O man, may the fire be?”
“Never a bit I know,” said he.
“Then why ring'st thou, O man of nerve?”
No whit did he from ringing swerve,
But said, as he swung the bell in air,
“Be jabers, I don't know nor care.”
Then I did marvel this man to hear,
But it all proper did appear,
Because, unto myself I said,
He only acts as he is led.
And thus it is with men and boys,
That, where you hear the greatest noise,
'Mongst those who make the biggest rout,
The least is known what 'tis about.
So he rung on till weary grown,
And then he let the bell alone.
'Tis thus with every noisy elf:
Reply not, and he dies himself.

[In the crowded street we found him]

[Yon clock—the Dutchman in the window there]

Yon clock—the Dutchman in the window there,
With broad-brimmed hat and spacious boots and breeches,
Who gazes forth with ever-brazen stare—
This lesson to my comprehension teaches:
He sembles well the ones of human kind,
—The host of epicurean sinners,
Who seem to have one only thing in mind,—
A good appreciation of their dinners.
He thrusts his rotund form obscenely out,
The dial on his breast his chief attraction,
And rolls his eyes complacently about,
As though he'd done some meritorious action;
But here's the moral point of this my rhyme:
His thought is on his stomach all the time.

[A blue coat!—ah, my country's uniform!]

A blue coat!—ah, my country's uniform!
Here is a relic of the battle-storm—
A wounded soldier. Gallantly he stood
Where fire and death raged round him like a flood.
Not scathless, though; the deadly missiles flew,
And stamped with martyrdom his courage true.
No more for him the dulcet strain will sound:
To lead him through the mazy's giddy round;
No more the agile foot will music beat
Upon the pavement of the sounding street;
No more on eager errands will he speed
At call of love, or call of human need.
But proud his mien, escaped from war's alarms,
Who legless stands and impor-tunes for alms.
An empty sleeve is badge of honor more
Than its stout wearer e'er enjoyed before—
A hero's glory, speaking like a trump,
Just like a politician, from the stump;
Eloquently pleading with his whole-limbed brother,
The while an organ-crank he turns with t'other.

[The wind went howling round the town]

The wind went howling round the town,
Turning things everywhere upside down,
Ripping off roofs and chimney-tops,
And throwing bricks round thick as hops;
The air was filled with hurtling beams,
And the water poured adown in streams;
The steeples toppled, and falling seemed,
As the fierce gale blew and wildly screamed;
The giant trees uprooted lay
Where the fierce tempest sped its way;
But wonderful more than all that befell
Was the fate of the man with the umberel!
When the rain came down in angry spite,
His umberel he held upright,
And round and round the circling gale
Swept him on as if under sail.
He couldn't stop, but twirled about,
Still holding on to the handle stout,
While fear to strength new power lent,
Till the gust prevailed and up he went!
Up o'er the house-tops then sailed he,
Like a feather borne on the surging sea;
Up and up to a fearful height,
Up and up till out of sight,
And when last seen he gave a yell,
But still held on to the umberel!
Folks looked from window and from door—
They stared; but he appeared no more;
They shuddered and whispered, “Who can tell
The fate of the man and his umberel?”
Next day a mariner out at sea
Spied, away up in the canopy,
A something seeming a monstrous bird,
From which a feeble cry was heard:
“Schooner, ahoy!—arriving tell
That you saw the man and his umberel!”
Only a moment the man was seen,
Then melted away in the blue serene;
And nevermore will he be found
These gay and festive scenes around,
And gossips long the tale will tell
How the man went up with his umberel!

[O, this dismal influenza!]

O, this dismal influenza!
O, this fearful influenza!
With its cough, and cough, and coffin,
And its bronchial titillation,
While the lacerated thorax
Thrills with frequent paroxysms,
And the nasal promontory
Seems as large as Mount Monadnoc,
And inflammatory ague
With fierce pain distorts the features,
And the quakes sternutatory,
Threatening, strive to shake one's head off!
All the life that moves around me
Takes the tone of influenza,
With its choking and its coughing,
With its barking and its aching,
With its ague and its cold chills,
Redolent with blasts of east wind,
—Blasted bad some ruffian called it,—
Full of sin and rheumatism.

[I saw an organ grinder in the street]

[As I along the street did go]

As I along the street did go
The while came down the powdery snow,
I saw a lady, gayly dight,
Pass o'er the pave with footstep light.
Her sprightly air, her beauteous form,
Carried my very heart by storm.
She seemed to me embodied grace,
An angel's sweetness in her face,
A complaisance almost divine,
Wherein the seraph seemed to shine.
I gazed entranced, as on she sped,
With head erect and airy tread;
The while my heart beat fast and strong
I marked her step the path along,
When, as she pressed the treacherous glare
Of ice that clothed the pavement there,
Her feet from their adhesion tripped,
And down upon the ice she slipped!
Horrors! the volume of my blood
Within its channels stagnant stood.
I rushed to aid her as she lay,
A helpless form upon the way;
But, as I reached to help the maid,
I found myself beside her laid!—
My feet had touched the glairy spot,
And down I tumbled as if shot.
She gained her feet, and laughing scorn
She gave me as I lay forlorn,
And said, “Young man, take my advice,—
Don't try so big a thing on ice!; ”
Then vanished from my vision's bliss,
Nor have I seen anything of her from that day to this.

[Conductor Gilmore lay in sleep]

Conductor Gilmore lay in sleep,
Calmly lay in slumber deep,
When, rattling through the concave high,
Broke the thunder of the sky.
Gilmore, in his dreaming, heard,
And his inmost soul was stirred,
For he saw before him stand
Choristers from every land,
With fiddlers, trumpeters, here come,
And ophicleide and kettle drum,
Shouting, and sounding of 'em all
In the great Peace Festival.
His soul to the occasion rose;
His baton moved with rapid blows;
His blazing eye with fervor burned
As this and t'other way it turned;
When, as there came a heavier crash,
As though the world had gone to smash,
He shouted with an eager face,
Don't bear so heavy on the bass!

[How dull it is! and so are we]

[If you wish to know what you should do]

If you wish to know what you should do
At church, the mercury ninety-two,
Sit right down in your cushioned pew,
With the cool air drawing freshly through,
And put your feet upon the seat
And lean your body in manner meet,
Then fix your eyes on the parson's face
As if you'd note his words of grace;—
But the sound of his voice is all you hear,
That comes like a hum to your Sunday ear;
Make no effort to catch his theme;
'Tis a murmur of waters afar you deem;
Then as its drone on your ear doth sweep,
Drop off gently, calmly to sleep;
And the preacher will vow, as he sees you there,
With your solemn and very reverent air,
That, of all his flock that are based upon rock
He hasn't another like you, old cock.

[Mrs. Ben Blifkins (may she ne'er grow less)]

Mrs. Ben Blifkins (may she ne'er grow less)
Awoke one night with nightmare, in distress,
And saw within the quiet of her room,
While from his meerschaum poured a rich perfume,
Her Blifkins writing in a little book;
Excessive sharpness made her keenly look,
And to her Benja. wonderingly she said,—
“What are you writing?” Blifkins raised his head,
And, with a smile expressing more than words,
Replied, “The names of those who love their lords.”
“And is mine one?” said she. “Nay, ne'er a show.”
Then, with a voice significantly low,
She said, “Take up your pencil now, my pet,
And write me one who loves to make 'em fret.”
Blifkins thus wrote and vanished in the night,
But came in soon with a big camphene light,
And lo! among the names a fret confest,
Mrs. B. Blifkin's name led all the rest.

[O glorious Fourth! how patriotism fires]

O glorious Fourth! how patriotism fires
(Confound your slow-match, careless boy!) to hear the
Music of this grand morn, whose note inspires
(You tin horn tooter, would that I were near thee!)
A feeling such as influenced our sires,
When they the British yoke (plague take that cracker!)
Threw off, and gained thee—theme for all our lyres!
(Pah! what a puff of villanous tobacco!)
Hail to the day!—let the grand cannon roar,
(Ha! that concussion my frail window shatters!)
Let the triumphal bells their tocsin pour,
(Bless me! my tender nerves are torn to tatters!)
Let our proud banner brush the bending sky—
(Let those endure who can, but I must fly.)

ON A BUTCHER'S LETTER.

[Suppose the spear of grass should say]

Suppose the spear of grass should say,
“What's the use of my growing, hey?
I'm of no account, any way;
I shall not add to the world's heyday;
So what's the use of my being, say?”
O, what a green, inconsiderate ass
We'd count this doubting spear of grass!
For the many like it make up the mass,
And many littles bring all to pass.
Now we can plainly the moral see
Apply to the human family:
The least, however small he may be,
To form the whole is necessaree.
This moral, we know, is very old,
But then it was never better told.

[My friend had on a coat quite seedy]

My friend had on a coat quite seedy;
He was not poor, he was not needy,
And much upon the thing I pondered,
And much and more again I wondered
Why he wore that coat so seedy
When he was not poor nor needy.
“Friend,” quoth I, “though there's no harm in't,
Why dost wear that seedy garment?”
Then my friend turned to me quicker,
And he broke into a snicker:
“For this reason, and no other,—
To cover up my back, my brother.”
Then I wondered more and more
I hadn't thought of this before.

[When June's hot sun pours down in fervid beams]

When June's hot sun pours down in fervid beams
In striking beams, that knock a mortal down,
Or make the perspiration flow in streams,
In regal streams, descending from the crown,—
My mind recalls a fat and jovial one,
A jovial one that I did call my friend,
Who melted on a time, 'neath such a sun,
'Neath such a sun, just like a candle end.
I saw him for a moment stand alone—
Stand all alone beneath a hat of straw;
A moment more and on the sidewalk stone,
That reeking stone, my wondering visuals saw
A heap of clothes, suspenders, hat, and boots,
An empty wicker-flask, and twenty choice cheroots.

[All the day, all the day]

[Little troubles are by these defined]

Little troubles are by these defined:
A creaking hinge upon a window blind;
A door slam-banging in the evening wind;
A snappish cur assailing you behind;
A thing forgotten you can't call to mind;
A talky woman scandally inclined;
A skein of cotton given you to wind;
A favorite dish remembered when you've dined;
A vine of ivy 'mid your grapes entwined;
A note to meet, you for a friend have signed;
A fork at dinner time, but singly tined;
A horse you've purchased, anything but kind;
A taste of lamp-oil with your tea combined;
A stupid sell for your own self designed;
A hidden thought some woman has divined;
A person deaf and doggedly opined;
A hope of cheese and only get the rind;
A hideous thing where beauty late was shrined.

[A princess marries! Lord, the fuss they make!]

A princess marries! Lord, the fuss they make!
As if 'twere something that was far from common,
That royal flesh and blood should deign to make
A royal wife, just like another woman!
They hang around the deed a tinsel show,
As if to hide its humanly appearing—
As if there were, the gorgeous veil below,
No heart of flesh, all hoping, loving, fearing.
Great Nature! equal art thou in thy works;
Thou'st given to all like qualities of feeling;
Perhaps disguised in royal bosoms lurks
A world of passion deeper for concealing.
The heart of woman throbs beneath the crown,
As 'neath the hat of straw and cotton gown.

[I wrote within an album once sweet things]

I wrote within an album once sweet things
Of one I loved—how madly! I was young,
And Cupid buzzed about with busy wings,
And tempted me perplexing ways among.
I bowed at that one shrine—my heart laid down,
And an eternal faithfulness I swore;
She was my monarch—love gave her a crown—
And I, her subject, went in to adore.
I know not how it was, but soon a cloud
Came o'er my spirit as I older grew;
The crown was changed, and squandered in a crowd
Was all the love that young affection knew.
I dodged the trap that early romance laid,
But didn't make much by it, I'm afraid.

[Of all the features humanly appearing]

Of all the features humanly appearing,
That divers ways the character bespeak,
Not one I know in any way is nearing
The quality of good, substantial cheek.
Men may have claims to place; but vain they seek
Advancement with this rival in the way:
Back to retiracy they baffled sneak,
While cheek triumphantly achieves the day.
How oft we see it in victorious sway,
In church or state, society or mart!
Whatever intellect or worth may say,
Cheek sweeps the board; the others set apart.
“Win” is the word the winds in waiting shriek,
When wealth and brains in vain compete with cheek.

[Hogarth affirmed the line of beauty lay]

Hogarth affirmed the line of beauty lay
In curves, and may be he was in the right;
But I affirm, myself, despite his say,
That other lines give full as much delight.
His zigzag crook attracts a crooked mind;
But what so gracefully the eye may fill
As that great evidence of taste refined,
The straight-lined shaft that graces Bunker Hill?
The line of beauty is that, after all,
Which we, as independent freemen, choose;
He who sees beauty in a flat brick wall
Of course old Hogarth's dogma will refuse.
Show me a beauty rarer, more divine,
Than that of a good, paying railroad line.

[There is a picture, pinned against my wall]

There is a picture, pinned against my wall,
Of one, a printer, managing his “case:”
He deftly wields a “stick,” I think they call
The implement that holds the types in place.
A patient face, with eyes intently bent
Upon the “copy” plainly held in view;
His lips compressed as though his soul were lent
To pierce the ink-traced mystery through and through.
Ah, grand old type! my spirit bows to thee,
Although the world thy merit cannot own;
I in thy toil a benefaction see,
That tends to human good, and that alone:
But, like the quadruped that once did bear
Unknowingly the world's salvation, he don't care.