 | The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe |  |
LEISURE-DAY RHYMES.
CHORUS OF THE DRYADS.
FIRST DRYAD.Who are these who come again
Strolling in our dark domain?
SECOND DRYAD.
Lovers, if I guess aright;
And I saw them yesternight,
Sitting by yon chestnut-tree;
And I marveled much to see
All I saw; and more to hear
All that fell—
FIRST DRYAD.
Now, tell me, dear,
What it means,—that wondrous word
Which so oft I plainly heard
(As, unseen, I watched above);
Tell me truly what is “love,”—
What of pleasure it may bring,
Since it seemed so sweet a thing;
What therein may lurk of pain,
Since, anon, they sighed again;
What of shame, that with a blush
She, the trembler, whispered, “Hush!”
(As assailed with sudden fear.)
“Darling! don't the Dryads hear?”
THIRD DRYAD.
True as truth! It chanced that I,
Sleeping on a branch anigh,
Heard it all; for I awoke
When their words the silence broke
Faith! the lover answered well:
“Sweet! the Dryads never tell!”
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Pan! I own the matter seems
Queer as aught we see in dreams;
Tell me plainly (older you;
And—it follows—wiser too!)
All about it; I would know
What it is can witch them so!
THIRD DRYAD.
Nay,—I know not. All I learn
These good eyes and ears discern.
For the rest,—beyond my ken
Are the ways of mortal men;
And for love,—if it contain
More of pleasure or of pain,
All my wits have brought about
Only this,—that still I doubt!
SECOND DRYAD.
Strange the awful oaths I heard
Following many a tender word
That from either smoothly slips
Through their seldom-severed lips,
In the little pauses when
They were free to speak again.
Yet I learn from such as you,
(Tell me plainly, is it true?)
That whate'er of bliss it bring,
Love is but a slippery thing;
That, with mortal men and maids,
Kisses fail when beauty fades;
And this Love, with scarce a sigh,
Dies when Youth and Pleasure die!
THIRD DRYAD.
Nay,—I know not. Well content
With the good the gods have lent
To our higher, happier kind,
Little, sooth! am I inclined
All the miseries to trace
That afflict the human race.
Safe amid our leafy bowers,
Sweetly flow the rosy hours,
While in friendship's calm estate,
Free from love, as free from hate,
Here our happy lives are passed,
Clear of passion—
FOURTH DRYAD.
Not so fast!
I have heard the tale, you see,
Of Pan and wanton Dryopè;
And hapless Syrinx, who, indeed,
To 'scape his love became a reed
Most musical of tender woe.
Ah! which of us can surely know
That she is safe? For me, I own
Some homage to this god unknown
Whose wondrous potency controls
Both mortal and immortal souls.
His smile I crave; his frown I fear;
So, be all lovers welcome here!
May fragrant flowers a carpet spread
Whereon their feet may softly tread;
May every tall, majestic tree,
To guard their tryst, a fortress be;
And every nymph that views the scene
Hold in her hand a leafy screen
To form a dense o'erarching roof
The blabbing moon to keep aloof;
And not a Dryad ever tell
The secret that she knows so well!
HERE AND HEREAFTER.
“Say, what shall I believe?” my neighbor said
Late yesternight, when light discourse had led
To graver themes. “For me, I stand perplexed,
While fierce polemics each upon his text
Of Scriptural foundation builds his creed,
And cries, ‘Lo! here is Truth! the Truth!’ I need
Some surer way than theologians teach
In dogmas of the sects.” I answered, “Each
Must do his own believing. As for me,
My creed is short as any man's may be;
'T is written in ‘The Sermon on the Mount,’
And in the ‘ Pater-Noster’; I account
The words ‘Our Father’ (had we lost the rest
Of that sweet prayer, the briefest and the best
In all the liturgies) of higher worth,
To ailing souls, than all the creeds on earth.
A Father loves his children—that I know—
And fain would make them happy. Even so
Our Heavenly Father—as we clearly learn
From his dear Word, and dimly may discern
From his fair Works—for us, his children, weak
To walk unhelped, and little prone to seek
In all our ways what best deserves his smile
Of approbation, careth all the while
With love ineffable. 'T is little more
Of his designs I venture to explore
Save with the eye of Faith. With that I see
(Aided by Reason's glasses) what may be
Hereafter, in that ‘Coming Kingdom’ when
The King shall justify his ways with men
On earth.”
“And what,” my doubting friend inquired,
“Shall be our destiny?”
“No tongue inspired
Hath plainly told us that. I cannot tell—
It is not given to know—where we shall dwell:
I only know—and humbly leave the rest
To Wisdom Infinite—that what is best
For each will be his place; that we shall wear
In the Beyond the character we bear
In passing; with what meliorating change
Of mind and soul, within the endless range
Of their activities, I cannot tell.
I know ‘Our Father’ doeth all things well,
And loves and changes not.”
“Alas! we know
The earth is rife with unavailing woe!”
My friend made answer. “How can such things be?
The Father being perfect we should see
His government the same”—
“Would he not err,—
The hasty judge,—who, having seen the stir
In the first Act of some well-ordered play,
Should cry, ‘Preposterous!’ and go away
And criticise the whole (four Acts unseen!)
As ill-contrived, inconsequent, and mean!”
Late yesternight, when light discourse had led
To graver themes. “For me, I stand perplexed,
While fierce polemics each upon his text
Of Scriptural foundation builds his creed,
And cries, ‘Lo! here is Truth! the Truth!’ I need
Some surer way than theologians teach
In dogmas of the sects.” I answered, “Each
Must do his own believing. As for me,
My creed is short as any man's may be;
'T is written in ‘The Sermon on the Mount,’
And in the ‘ Pater-Noster’; I account
The words ‘Our Father’ (had we lost the rest
Of that sweet prayer, the briefest and the best
In all the liturgies) of higher worth,
To ailing souls, than all the creeds on earth.
A Father loves his children—that I know—
And fain would make them happy. Even so
Our Heavenly Father—as we clearly learn
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From his fair Works—for us, his children, weak
To walk unhelped, and little prone to seek
In all our ways what best deserves his smile
Of approbation, careth all the while
With love ineffable. 'T is little more
Of his designs I venture to explore
Save with the eye of Faith. With that I see
(Aided by Reason's glasses) what may be
Hereafter, in that ‘Coming Kingdom’ when
The King shall justify his ways with men
On earth.”
“And what,” my doubting friend inquired,
“Shall be our destiny?”
“No tongue inspired
Hath plainly told us that. I cannot tell—
It is not given to know—where we shall dwell:
I only know—and humbly leave the rest
To Wisdom Infinite—that what is best
For each will be his place; that we shall wear
In the Beyond the character we bear
In passing; with what meliorating change
Of mind and soul, within the endless range
Of their activities, I cannot tell.
I know ‘Our Father’ doeth all things well,
And loves and changes not.”
“Alas! we know
The earth is rife with unavailing woe!”
My friend made answer. “How can such things be?
The Father being perfect we should see
His government the same”—
“Would he not err,—
The hasty judge,—who, having seen the stir
In the first Act of some well-ordered play,
Should cry, ‘Preposterous!’ and go away
And criticise the whole (four Acts unseen!)
As ill-contrived, inconsequent, and mean!”
“Something germane to this,” my daughter said,
“In an old Jewish tale I lately read:
To pious Bildad, deeply mourning one
Whom he had deeply loved,—his only son,—
Who of the plague had died that very day,
Came his friend Amos, saying, ‘Tell me, pray,
What grief is this that bows thy reverend head?’
The mourner answered, pointing to the bed
Whereon was laid the body of the youth,
‘Behold, my friend, the cause! good cause, in sooth,
For one to weep, who sees his hopes decay,—
The work of years all blasted in a day,
As there thou seest!’ Amos, answering, said,
‘'T is true, indeed, thine only son is dead;
And as thy love even so thy grief is great;
But tell me, friend, doth not thy faith abate
In some degree the sharpness of thy pain?’
‘Alas!’ said Bildad, ‘how can I refrain
From these despairing tears, when thus I find
My anxious care to cultivate the mind,
The wondrous gifts and graces of my son,
Untimely doomed to death, is all undone?’
Touched by his sorrow, Amos sat awhile
In silent thought; then, with a beaming smile,
As one who offers manifest relief,
He said, ‘O Bildad! let it soothe thy grief,
That He who gave the talents thou hast sought
To cherish, and by culture wouldst have wrought
To highest excellence in this thy son,
Will surely finish what thou hast begun!’”
“In an old Jewish tale I lately read:
To pious Bildad, deeply mourning one
Whom he had deeply loved,—his only son,—
Who of the plague had died that very day,
Came his friend Amos, saying, ‘Tell me, pray,
What grief is this that bows thy reverend head?’
The mourner answered, pointing to the bed
Whereon was laid the body of the youth,
‘Behold, my friend, the cause! good cause, in sooth,
For one to weep, who sees his hopes decay,—
The work of years all blasted in a day,
As there thou seest!’ Amos, answering, said,
‘'T is true, indeed, thine only son is dead;
And as thy love even so thy grief is great;
But tell me, friend, doth not thy faith abate
In some degree the sharpness of thy pain?’
‘Alas!’ said Bildad, ‘how can I refrain
From these despairing tears, when thus I find
My anxious care to cultivate the mind,
The wondrous gifts and graces of my son,
Untimely doomed to death, is all undone?’
Touched by his sorrow, Amos sat awhile
In silent thought; then, with a beaming smile,
As one who offers manifest relief,
He said, ‘O Bildad! let it soothe thy grief,
That He who gave the talents thou hast sought
To cherish, and by culture wouldst have wrought
To highest excellence in this thy son,
Will surely finish what thou hast begun!’”
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MY BOOKS.
Ah! well I love these books of mine,
That stand so trimly on their shelves,
With here and there a broken line
(Fat “quartos” jostling modest “twelves”),—
A curious company, I own;
The poorest ranking with their betters:
In brief,—a thing almost unknown,—
A Pure Democracy of Letters.
That stand so trimly on their shelves,
With here and there a broken line
(Fat “quartos” jostling modest “twelves”),—
A curious company, I own;
The poorest ranking with their betters:
In brief,—a thing almost unknown,—
A Pure Democracy of Letters.
A motley gathering are they,—
Some fairly worth their weight in gold;
Some just too good to throw away;
Some scarcely worth the place they hold.
Yet well I love them, one and all,—
These friends so meek and unobtrusive,
Who never fail to come at call,
Nor (if I scold them) turn abusive!
Some fairly worth their weight in gold;
Some just too good to throw away;
Some scarcely worth the place they hold.
Yet well I love them, one and all,—
These friends so meek and unobtrusive,
Who never fail to come at call,
Nor (if I scold them) turn abusive!
If I have favorites here and there,
And, like a monarch, pick and choose,
I never meet an angry stare
That this I take and that refuse;
No discords rise my soul to vex
Among these peaceful book-relations,
Nor envious strife of age or sex
To mar my quiet lucubrations.
And, like a monarch, pick and choose,
I never meet an angry stare
That this I take and that refuse;
No discords rise my soul to vex
Among these peaceful book-relations,
Nor envious strife of age or sex
To mar my quiet lucubrations.
And they have still another merit,
Which otherwhere one vainly seeks,
Whate'er may be an author's spirit,
He never uninvited speaks;
And should he prove a fool or clown,
Unworth the precious time you 're spending,
How quickly you can “put him down,”
Or “shut him up,” without offending!
Which otherwhere one vainly seeks,
Whate'er may be an author's spirit,
He never uninvited speaks;
And should he prove a fool or clown,
Unworth the precious time you 're spending,
How quickly you can “put him down,”
Or “shut him up,” without offending!
Here—pleasing sight!—the touchy brood
Of critics from dissension cease;
And—stranger still!—no more at feud,
Polemics smile, and keep the peace.
See! side by side, all free from strife
(Save what the heavy page may smother),
The gentle “Christians” who in life,
For conscience' sake, had burned each other!
Of critics from dissension cease;
And—stranger still!—no more at feud,
Polemics smile, and keep the peace.
See! side by side, all free from strife
(Save what the heavy page may smother),
The gentle “Christians” who in life,
For conscience' sake, had burned each other!
I call them friends, these quiet books,
And well the title they may claim,
Who always give me cheerful looks;
(What living friend has done the same?)
And, for companionship, how few,
As these, my cronies ever present,
Of all the friends I ever knew
Have been so useful and so pleasant?
And well the title they may claim,
Who always give me cheerful looks;
(What living friend has done the same?)
And, for companionship, how few,
As these, my cronies ever present,
Of all the friends I ever knew
Have been so useful and so pleasant?
ESSE QUAM VIDERI.
“To be, not seem!”—the phrase is old,
And looks heroic, 't is confessed;
And yet, for all its gloss of gold,
'T will scarcely stand the final test;
For, in effect, full many a truth
Is in the seeming, not the sooth.
And looks heroic, 't is confessed;
And yet, for all its gloss of gold,
'T will scarcely stand the final test;
For, in effect, full many a truth
Is in the seeming, not the sooth.
Be false, then? No!—let Truth appear
In her own guise, if so it be
Her words are such as men may hear
Unhurt, and such as harm not thee;
But guard thy seeming, nor reveal
The fault that silence would conceal.
In her own guise, if so it be
Her words are such as men may hear
Unhurt, and such as harm not thee;
But guard thy seeming, nor reveal
The fault that silence would conceal.
“Open and honest!” sayest thou:
“Why to my neighbor not make known
All ugly soul-spots I avow
To my own conscience as my own;
Plain as the freckles he may trace,
Unasked, upon my hand or face?”
“Why to my neighbor not make known
All ugly soul-spots I avow
To my own conscience as my own;
Plain as the freckles he may trace,
Unasked, upon my hand or face?”
I answer thus: The Mighty One
Who made thy best, immortal part,
Made it invisible, that none
May see thy mind or read thy heart,
Save as thou wilt; else were thy soul
In others', not thine own, control.
Who made thy best, immortal part,
Made it invisible, that none
May see thy mind or read thy heart,
Save as thou wilt; else were thy soul
In others', not thine own, control.
'T is well that God alone can see
The hearts of men that He has made
Within their breasts; since only he
With their infirmities has weighed
Their sins,—to human frailty just,
Knowing full well we are but dust.
The hearts of men that He has made
Within their breasts; since only he
With their infirmities has weighed
Their sins,—to human frailty just,
Knowing full well we are but dust.
And as we hide, for very shame,
With garments cunning Art doth lend,
Whatever of our fleshly frame,
Undraped, would mortal eyes offend
(While to the Maker, ne'er the less,
His power and wisdom we confess);
With garments cunning Art doth lend,
Whatever of our fleshly frame,
Undraped, would mortal eyes offend
(While to the Maker, ne'er the less,
His power and wisdom we confess);
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So let our souls—which, all unclad,
Though fair as souls on earth may be,
Were still a sight to make men sad,
Unmeet for human eyes to see—
In modest drapery conceal
The faults 't were shameful to reveal.
Though fair as souls on earth may be,
Were still a sight to make men sad,
Unmeet for human eyes to see—
In modest drapery conceal
The faults 't were shameful to reveal.
Nay, as, with no unlawful arts,
We deck our forms to make them fair,
Who shall aver our wayward hearts
May not receive an equal care,
That, like our bodies, they may be
In seemly plight for company?
We deck our forms to make them fair,
Who shall aver our wayward hearts
May not receive an equal care,
That, like our bodies, they may be
In seemly plight for company?
THE DEAD LETTER.
And can it be? Ah, yes, I see,
'T is thirty years and better
Since Mary Morgan sent to me
This musty, musky letter.
A pretty hand (she could n't spell),
As any man must vote it;
And 't was, as I remember well,
A pretty hand that wrote it!
'T is thirty years and better
Since Mary Morgan sent to me
This musty, musky letter.
A pretty hand (she could n't spell),
As any man must vote it;
And 't was, as I remember well,
A pretty hand that wrote it!
How calmly now I view it all,
As memory backward ranges,—
The talks, the walks, that I recall,
And then—the postal changes!
How well I loved her I can guess
(Since cash is Cupid's hostage),—
Just one-and-sixpence—nothing less—
This letter cost in postage!
As memory backward ranges,—
The talks, the walks, that I recall,
And then—the postal changes!
How well I loved her I can guess
(Since cash is Cupid's hostage),—
Just one-and-sixpence—nothing less—
This letter cost in postage!
The love that wrote at such a rate
(By Jove! it was a steep one!)
Five hundred notes (I calculate)
Was certainly a deep one;
And yet it died—of slow decline—
Perhaps suspicion chilled it;
I 've quite forgotten if 't was mine
Or Mary's flirting killed it.
(By Jove! it was a steep one!)
Five hundred notes (I calculate)
Was certainly a deep one;
And yet it died—of slow decline—
Perhaps suspicion chilled it;
I 've quite forgotten if 't was mine
Or Mary's flirting killed it.
At last the fatal message came:
“My letters,—please return them;
And yours—of course you wish the same—
I'll send them back or burn them.”
Two precious fools, I must allow,
Whichever was the greater:
I wonder if I'm wiser now,
Some seven lustres later?
“My letters,—please return them;
And yours—of course you wish the same—
I'll send them back or burn them.”
Two precious fools, I must allow,
Whichever was the greater:
I wonder if I'm wiser now,
Some seven lustres later?
And this alone remains! Ah, well!
These words of warm affection,
The faded ink, the pungent smell,
Are food for deep reflection.
They tell of how the heart contrives
To change with fancy's fashion,
And how a drop of musk survives
The strongest human passion!
These words of warm affection,
The faded ink, the pungent smell,
Are food for deep reflection.
They tell of how the heart contrives
To change with fancy's fashion,
And how a drop of musk survives
The strongest human passion!
TO A CITY COUSIN ABOUT TO BE MARRIED.
(S. B.)
Is it true, what they tell me, my beautiful cousin,
You are going to be married?—have settled the day?
That the cards are all printed?—the wedding-dress chosen?—
And everything fixed for an evening in May?
Ah—well!—just imagine,—had I been a Turk,
And you—but, no matter,—'t is idle to whine;
In the purest of bosoms some envy may lurk,
And I feel a little (I own it!) in mine!
You are going to be married?—have settled the day?
That the cards are all printed?—the wedding-dress chosen?—
And everything fixed for an evening in May?
Ah—well!—just imagine,—had I been a Turk,
And you—but, no matter,—'t is idle to whine;
In the purest of bosoms some envy may lurk,
And I feel a little (I own it!) in mine!
'T is over!—the struggle was but for a minute;
And now let me give you, dear cousin, I pray,
A word of advice,—if there 's anything in it,
Accept it; if not, you can throw it away.
An excellent maxim is “crede experto”;
Which means (since your Latin I venture to doubt)
For practical wisdom 't is best to refer to
A teacher who knows what he 's talking about.
And now let me give you, dear cousin, I pray,
A word of advice,—if there 's anything in it,
Accept it; if not, you can throw it away.
An excellent maxim is “crede experto”;
Which means (since your Latin I venture to doubt)
For practical wisdom 't is best to refer to
A teacher who knows what he 's talking about.
C'est moi! I 've been married this many a year;
And know rather more than a bachelor can,
And more—I suppose it is equally clear—
Than a very young wife or a new-married man.
Of course there'll be matters to worry and vex,
But woman is mighty, and Patience endures;
And ours—recollect—is the (much) “softer sex,”
Though we (not very gallantly) say it of yours!
And know rather more than a bachelor can,
And more—I suppose it is equally clear—
Than a very young wife or a new-married man.
Of course there'll be matters to worry and vex,
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And ours—recollect—is the (much) “softer sex,”
Though we (not very gallantly) say it of yours!
The strong should be merciful! Woman we find,
Though weaker in body, surpassing us still
In virtue; and strong—very strong in her mind,
(When she knows what it is!)—not to mention her will.
Be gentle! How hard you will find it to bear
When your husband is wrong; and as difficult, quite,
In the other contingency,—not at all rare,—
When you 're forced, in your heart, to confess he was right!
Though weaker in body, surpassing us still
In virtue; and strong—very strong in her mind,
(When she knows what it is!)—not to mention her will.
Be gentle! How hard you will find it to bear
When your husband is wrong; and as difficult, quite,
In the other contingency,—not at all rare,—
When you 're forced, in your heart, to confess he was right!
Be careful of trifles: a maxim of weight
In questions affecting the heart or the head;
In wedlock, consider how often the fate
Of the gravest affairs may depend on a thread.
On a button perhaps! Ah! the “conjugal tie”
Should never be strained to its ultimate test;
Full many a matron has found, with a sigh,
That the fixture was barely a button, at best!
In questions affecting the heart or the head;
In wedlock, consider how often the fate
Of the gravest affairs may depend on a thread.
On a button perhaps! Ah! the “conjugal tie”
Should never be strained to its ultimate test;
Full many a matron has found, with a sigh,
That the fixture was barely a button, at best!
A truce to our jesting. While friends by the dozen
Their kind gratulations are fain to employ;
None more than your poet—your mirth-loving cousin—
Puts his heart in the words while he 's “wishing you joy.”
Quite through to its close may your conjugal life
Maintain the impressions with which it began;
The women still saying, “I envy the wife,”
And husbands exclaiming, “I envy the man!”
Their kind gratulations are fain to employ;
None more than your poet—your mirth-loving cousin—
Puts his heart in the words while he 's “wishing you joy.”
Quite through to its close may your conjugal life
Maintain the impressions with which it began;
The women still saying, “I envy the wife,”
And husbands exclaiming, “I envy the man!”
May 25, 1870.
HOW TO WOO AND WIN.
Would you play the manly lover
(Said a gray beard to his son),
List, my lad, while I discover
How a maiden should be won.
(Said a gray beard to his son),
List, my lad, while I discover
How a maiden should be won.
Woo her not with boastful phrases,
Lest you teach her lip to sneer;
Still a suitor's warmest praises
In his conduct should appear.
Lest you teach her lip to sneer;
Still a suitor's warmest praises
In his conduct should appear.
Woo her not with senseless sighing;
Maidens love a laughing eye:
Tell her not that you are “dying,”
Lest she, mocking, bid you die!
Maidens love a laughing eye:
Tell her not that you are “dying,”
Lest she, mocking, bid you die!
Woo her not with weakly whining
O'er your poverty of pelf,
Lest she answer by declining
Both your sorrows and yourself!
O'er your poverty of pelf,
Lest she answer by declining
Both your sorrows and yourself!
Woo her with a manly wooing;
Giving hostages to Fate,
All the heart's devotion showing
By its strength to work and wait.
Giving hostages to Fate,
All the heart's devotion showing
By its strength to work and wait.
Woo her not with idle prattle
Whom you fain would make your wife;
But with proof that in life's battle
You are equal to the strife.
Whom you fain would make your wife;
But with proof that in life's battle
You are equal to the strife.
Like the knight whose simple suing
Won the lady (says the tale),
When, despite their wordy wooing,
All the rest were doomed to fail:—
Won the lady (says the tale),
When, despite their wordy wooing,
All the rest were doomed to fail:—
“Lady!” quoth the bold Knight Errant,
“Brief the story I shall tell:
I would wed thee; here 's the warrant
I shall love and serve thee well!”
“Brief the story I shall tell:
I would wed thee; here 's the warrant
I shall love and serve thee well!”
And, behold! his dexter fingers
Crush a horse-shoe, like a reed!
And within her lap there lingers
All the gold the twain can need!
Crush a horse-shoe, like a reed!
And within her lap there lingers
All the gold the twain can need!
PARTING WORDS.
Farewell! Howe'er it fare with me,
(But God is good!) I pray for thee
Such peace as Heaven may grant to one
Who, basking in the summer sun
Of pleasure, for life's nobler part
Bears evermore a wintry heart.
(But God is good!) I pray for thee
Such peace as Heaven may grant to one
Who, basking in the summer sun
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Bears evermore a wintry heart.
And if I lose what could not last,
With little grief that all is past,
For me, I deem my sin was small:
No broken pledges I recall;
No shaken constancy; no word
Of faith, save what might be inferred
From lips that did but warmly kiss,
Or speak, no other sense than this,—
That thou wert beautiful, and seemed
The bright ideal I had dreamed
My kind, but somewhat tardy, Fate
Would send, one day, to be my mate.
And, for a while, I looked to thee,
With fond expectancy, to see
(As suited with thy handsome face,
Fair to excess!) the inward grace,
The noble soul, the brilliant mind,
That form the flower of womankind.
With little grief that all is past,
For me, I deem my sin was small:
No broken pledges I recall;
No shaken constancy; no word
Of faith, save what might be inferred
From lips that did but warmly kiss,
Or speak, no other sense than this,—
That thou wert beautiful, and seemed
The bright ideal I had dreamed
My kind, but somewhat tardy, Fate
Would send, one day, to be my mate.
And, for a while, I looked to thee,
With fond expectancy, to see
(As suited with thy handsome face,
Fair to excess!) the inward grace,
The noble soul, the brilliant mind,
That form the flower of womankind.
The proverb says, “We live and learn”;
And so it came that I discern
(Since now I read thee, through and through,
With eyes somewhat love-blinded, too!)
A nature shallow, fickle, cold;
A judgment weak, yet over-bold;
A heart that yearns, when passion-moved,
To love? No!—only to be loved!
And yet receives the precious store,
Unconscious of the costly ore,
As an unthinking child might cry
For diamonds flashing in its eye,
Whom bits of glass had pleased as well!
And so it came that I discern
(Since now I read thee, through and through,
With eyes somewhat love-blinded, too!)
A nature shallow, fickle, cold;
A judgment weak, yet over-bold;
A heart that yearns, when passion-moved,
To love? No!—only to be loved!
And yet receives the precious store,
Unconscious of the costly ore,
As an unthinking child might cry
For diamonds flashing in its eye,
Whom bits of glass had pleased as well!
I thank the Fate who broke the spell;
I thank thee for the petty spite,
That for a small, imagined slight,
(Though graver sins had passed unseen!)
At last dethroned my Fancy's queen,
And left me musing how a face
Which once had worn so sweet a grace
Could, in a moment, (wondrous change!)
Its warmest worshiper estrange!
I thank thee for the petty spite,
That for a small, imagined slight,
(Though graver sins had passed unseen!)
At last dethroned my Fancy's queen,
And left me musing how a face
Which once had worn so sweet a grace
Could, in a moment, (wondrous change!)
Its warmest worshiper estrange!
MISERERE DOMINE!
A HYMN.
Have pity, Lord!—we humbly cry,
With trembling voice, and tearful eye;
Thou know'st our ignorance and sin,
And what by grace we might have been;
All—all is known, O Lord, to thee;
Miserere Domine!
With trembling voice, and tearful eye;
Thou know'st our ignorance and sin,
And what by grace we might have been;
All—all is known, O Lord, to thee;
Miserere Domine!
Our public walks and private ways;
The follies of our youthful days;
Our manhood's errors,—every stain
Of lust and pride to thee are plain;
For who, O Lord! can hide from thee?
Miserere Domine!
The follies of our youthful days;
Our manhood's errors,—every stain
Of lust and pride to thee are plain;
For who, O Lord! can hide from thee?
Miserere Domine!
Too late we mourn our wasted hours,
Neglected gifts, perverted powers;
Affections warm, of heavenly birth,
Lavished, alas! on toys of earth:
How far estranged, O Lord, from thee!
Miserere Domine!
Neglected gifts, perverted powers;
Affections warm, of heavenly birth,
Lavished, alas! on toys of earth:
How far estranged, O Lord, from thee!
Miserere Domine!
How oft, O Lord! things bright and fair
To human sight, are but a snare;
A gilded bait to lure the soul
Within the subtle Fiend's control:
But there is refuge, Lord, in thee!
Miserere Domine!
To human sight, are but a snare;
A gilded bait to lure the soul
Within the subtle Fiend's control:
But there is refuge, Lord, in thee!
Miserere Domine!
Oh, let us never feel in vain
From thy dear hand the warning pain;
The Father's stripes upon us laid
In mercy, for thy children's aid:
Teach us in all thy hand to see:
Miserere Domine!
From thy dear hand the warning pain;
The Father's stripes upon us laid
In mercy, for thy children's aid:
Teach us in all thy hand to see:
Miserere Domine!
“Our Father!” thou dost bid us pray;
As children who are prone to stray
In devious paths, whence we retreat
With garments torn and bleeding feet;
Our Father! let us fly to thee:
Miserere Domine!
As children who are prone to stray
In devious paths, whence we retreat
With garments torn and bleeding feet;
Our Father! let us fly to thee:
Miserere Domine!
Our Father! ever-blesséd name!
To thee we bring our sin and shame;
Weak though we be, perverse of will,
Thou art our gracious Father still,
Who knowest well how frail we be.
Miserere Domine!
To thee we bring our sin and shame;
Weak though we be, perverse of will,
Thou art our gracious Father still,
Who knowest well how frail we be.
Miserere Domine!
THE DUKE'S STRATAGEM.
A MILANESE TALE.
The Duke of Milan—Galeazzo named—Supremely loved Correggia, widely famed
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And, in her heart, she loved the Duke no less;
Though each, awhile (so churlish Fate designed
To mar their bliss) knew not the other's mind,
But hoped and feared in silence; till, at last,
When many a moon of trembling doubt was passed,
And Gossip vainly had essayed to seek
The cause of Galeazzo's pallid cheek
And moody air, some ladies of the Court
Addressed him boldly thus (as half in sport
And half in earnest): “Sire! we all can see
Your Highness is in love!—and now, that we
May pay our loyal service where the same
Is justly due, we fain would know the name
Of her,—the happy lady of your choice!”
Surprised, abashed, the Duke, with faltering voice,
In civil sort such merry answers made,
As best might serve the question to evade.
In vain! as one by one their weapons fail,
With fresh artillery they the Duke assail,
Until, at length, 't is clear the man must yield,
By clamor overpowered,—or fly the field!
“A truce,—a truce!” he cried, “for mercy's sake!
Now, please you all! a banquet I will make,
Such as may suit so fair a company:
Come, one and all, and see what you shall see,
To aid—perchance to end—your merry quest.”
And all said “Aye!”—Correggia with the rest.
The banquet over, Galeazzo set
Upon the board a curious cabinet
In which, upon a panel, was portrayed,
In happiest art, the picture of a maid
(Some clever painter's). “There!” said he,
All ye who choose, my lady-love may see!”
Now, when the fair Correggia—lingering last,
For fearfulness—observed that all who passed
The pictured girl, in silence turned away
As from a face unknown,—in deep dismay
She took her turn to gaze; when God of Grace!
She saw no painted image, but the face
Which her own features, radiantly fair,
Reflected, blushing, in a mirror there!
And so it was the two true loves were known;
And so it came to pass that not alone
The happy Galeazzo filled the ducal throne!
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
The times are changed!” long, long ago,
A Roman graybeard sighed;
“And still, as seasons wax and wane,
We change with time and tide.”
And I (alas! that I must own
My locks are growing scanter!)
In pensive retrospect repeat,
O tempora mutantur!
A Roman graybeard sighed;
“And still, as seasons wax and wane,
We change with time and tide.”
And I (alas! that I must own
My locks are growing scanter!)
In pensive retrospect repeat,
O tempora mutantur!
Where now are all the village belles
I sonneteered of yore?
Gone,—with the fashion of the boots
And bonnets which they wore;
Their dimpled cheeks are wrinkled now,
And Time—the Disenchanter!
Has dimmed the eyes that dazzled mine,—
O tempora mutantur!
I sonneteered of yore?
Gone,—with the fashion of the boots
And bonnets which they wore;
Their dimpled cheeks are wrinkled now,
And Time—the Disenchanter!
Has dimmed the eyes that dazzled mine,—
O tempora mutantur!
Oh how we raved of constancy,
Melinda May and I!
I 've quite forgotten which was first
To break the tender tie;
I know that I survived the shock,
(Though sworn to die instanter!)
And 'Linda lived—to love again,—
O tempora mutantur!
Melinda May and I!
I 've quite forgotten which was first
To break the tender tie;
I know that I survived the shock,
(Though sworn to die instanter!)
And 'Linda lived—to love again,—
O tempora mutantur!
Good Dr. Proser, where is he?
Whose logic clear and strong
The vestry praised,—nor ever deemed
The sermon over-long,
Until they heard, and quite preferred
The Reverend Rousing Ranter;
To whom succeeded Parson Prim,—
O tempora mutantur!
Whose logic clear and strong
The vestry praised,—nor ever deemed
The sermon over-long,
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The Reverend Rousing Ranter;
To whom succeeded Parson Prim,—
O tempora mutantur!
Yes, times are changed; but one can dine,
And Mag 's the best of cooks.
“No dinner?” John! “Sir, if you please,
Mag 's gone to ‘go for Snooks’!”
And wife? “She 's gone along with Mag.”
John! bring me that decanter!—
By Jove! I'll go and vote for Jones!
O tempora mutantur!
And Mag 's the best of cooks.
“No dinner?” John! “Sir, if you please,
Mag 's gone to ‘go for Snooks’!”
And wife? “She 's gone along with Mag.”
John! bring me that decanter!—
By Jove! I'll go and vote for Jones!
O tempora mutantur!
A CHARMING WOMAN.
A charming woman, I've heard it said
By other women as light as she;
But all in vain I puzzle my head
To find wherein the charm may be.
Her face, indeed, is pretty enough,
And her form is quite as good as the best,
Where Nature has given the bony stuff,
And a clever milliner all the rest.
By other women as light as she;
But all in vain I puzzle my head
To find wherein the charm may be.
Her face, indeed, is pretty enough,
And her form is quite as good as the best,
Where Nature has given the bony stuff,
And a clever milliner all the rest.
Intelligent? Yes,—in a certain way;
With a feminine gift of ready speech;
And knows very well what not to say
Whenever the theme transcends her reach.
But turn the topic on things to wear,
From an opera cloak to a robe de nuit,—
Hats, basques, or bonnets,—'t will make you stare
To see how fluent the lady can be!
With a feminine gift of ready speech;
And knows very well what not to say
Whenever the theme transcends her reach.
But turn the topic on things to wear,
From an opera cloak to a robe de nuit,—
Hats, basques, or bonnets,—'t will make you stare
To see how fluent the lady can be!
Her laugh is hardly a thing to please;
For an honest laugh must always start
From a gleesome mood, like a sudden breeze,
And hers is purely a matter of art,—
A muscular motion made to show
What Nature designed to lie beneath
The finer mouth; but what can she do,
If that is ruined to show the teeth?
For an honest laugh must always start
From a gleesome mood, like a sudden breeze,
And hers is purely a matter of art,—
A muscular motion made to show
What Nature designed to lie beneath
The finer mouth; but what can she do,
If that is ruined to show the teeth?
To her seat in church—a good half-mile—
When the day is fine she is sure to go,
Arrayed, of course, in the latest style
La mode de Paris has got to show;
And she puts her hands on the velvet pew
(Can hands so white have a taint of sin?)
And thinks—how her prayer-book's tint of blue
Must harmonize with her milky skin!
When the day is fine she is sure to go,
Arrayed, of course, in the latest style
La mode de Paris has got to show;
And she puts her hands on the velvet pew
(Can hands so white have a taint of sin?)
And thinks—how her prayer-book's tint of blue
Must harmonize with her milky skin!
Ah! what shall we say of one who walks
In fields of flowers to choose the weeds?
Reads authors of whom she never talks,
And talks of authors she never reads?
She's a charming woman, I've heard it said
By other women as light as she;
But all in vain I puzzle my head
To find wherein the charm may be.
In fields of flowers to choose the weeds?
Reads authors of whom she never talks,
And talks of authors she never reads?
She's a charming woman, I've heard it said
By other women as light as she;
But all in vain I puzzle my head
To find wherein the charm may be.
“JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT!”
“Hélas! vous ne m'aimez pas.”
—Piron.
—Piron.
I know, Justine, you speak me fair
As often as we meet;
And 't is a luxury, I swear,
To hear a voice so sweet;
And yet it does not please me quite,
The civil way you 've got;
For me you 're something too polite,—
Justine, you love me not!
As often as we meet;
And 't is a luxury, I swear,
To hear a voice so sweet;
And yet it does not please me quite,
The civil way you 've got;
For me you 're something too polite,—
Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine, you never scold
At aught that I may do:
If I am passionate or cold,
'T is all the same to you.
“A charming temper,” say the men,
“To smooth a husband's lot”:
I wish 't were ruffled now and then,—
Justine, you love me not!
At aught that I may do:
If I am passionate or cold,
'T is all the same to you.
“A charming temper,” say the men,
“To smooth a husband's lot”:
I wish 't were ruffled now and then,—
Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine, you wear a smile
As beaming as the sun;
But who supposes all the while
It shines for only one?
Though azure skies are fair to see,
A transient cloudy spot
In yours would promise more to me,—
Justine, you love me not!
As beaming as the sun;
But who supposes all the while
It shines for only one?
Though azure skies are fair to see,
A transient cloudy spot
In yours would promise more to me,—
Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine, you make my name
Your eulogistic theme,
And say—if any chance to blame—
You hold me in esteem.
Such words, for all their kindly scope,
Delight me not a jot;
Just so you would have praised the Pope,—
Justine, you love me not!
Your eulogistic theme,
And say—if any chance to blame—
You hold me in esteem.
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Delight me not a jot;
Just so you would have praised the Pope,—
Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine, for I have heard
What friendly voices tell,—
You do not blush to say the word,
“You like me passing well”;
And thus the fatal sound I hear
That seals my lonely lot:
There's nothing now to hope or fear,—
Justine, you love me not!
What friendly voices tell,—
You do not blush to say the word,
“You like me passing well”;
And thus the fatal sound I hear
That seals my lonely lot:
There's nothing now to hope or fear,—
Justine, you love me not!
“BE GOOD TO YOURSELF.”
“Good-by! good-by!” the driver said,
As the coach went off in a whirl
(And the coachman bowed his handsome head);
“Be good to yourself,—my girl!”
As the coach went off in a whirl
(And the coachman bowed his handsome head);
“Be good to yourself,—my girl!”
Ah! many a fond good-by I 've heard,
From many an aching heart;
And many a friendly farewell word,
When strangers came to part;
From many an aching heart;
And many a friendly farewell word,
When strangers came to part;
And I 've heard a thousand merry quips,
And many a senseless joke,
And many a fervent prayer from lips
That all a-tremble spoke;
And many a senseless joke,
And many a fervent prayer from lips
That all a-tremble spoke;
And many a bit of good advice
In smooth proverbial phrase;
And many a wish—of little price—
For health and happy days:
In smooth proverbial phrase;
And many a wish—of little price—
For health and happy days:
But musing how the human soul
(Whate'er the Fates may will)
Still measures by its self-control
Its greatest good or ill,—
(Whate'er the Fates may will)
Still measures by its self-control
Its greatest good or ill,—
Of benedictions, I protest,
'Mid many a shining pearl,
I like the merry coachman's best,—
“Be good to yourself,—my girl!”
'Mid many a shining pearl,
I like the merry coachman's best,—
“Be good to yourself,—my girl!”
TO A BACHELOR FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.
Come and see us, any day;
With his choicest mercies
Heaven has showered my rugged way,
Plenty—as my verses.
Share my home, O lonely elf,
Cosiest of houses
Wisely ordered, like myself!
By the best of spouses.
With his choicest mercies
Heaven has showered my rugged way,
Plenty—as my verses.
Share my home, O lonely elf,
Cosiest of houses
Wisely ordered, like myself!
By the best of spouses.
Though 't is small upon the ground,
I may fairly mention
Toward the sky it will be found
Of sublime extension.
Narrow is a city-lot,
When you 've truly said it;
But the “stories” we have got
You would scarcely credit!
I may fairly mention
Toward the sky it will be found
Of sublime extension.
Narrow is a city-lot,
When you 've truly said it;
But the “stories” we have got
You would scarcely credit!
Though the stairs are something tall,
You have but to clamber
Up the fourth; “upon the wall
Is the Prophet's chamber.”
Thence my garden you may view,
Kept with costly labor,
Specially for me and you,
By my wealthy neighbor.
You have but to clamber
Up the fourth; “upon the wall
Is the Prophet's chamber.”
Thence my garden you may view,
Kept with costly labor,
Specially for me and you,
By my wealthy neighbor.
Books, you hardly need be told—
Wait your welcome coming;
Some I warrant—mainly old—
Worthy of your thumbing.
For the rest, I only swear,
Though they 're rather recent,
You will find the printing fair,
And the binding decent.
Wait your welcome coming;
Some I warrant—mainly old—
Worthy of your thumbing.
For the rest, I only swear,
Though they 're rather recent,
You will find the printing fair,
And the binding decent.
Breakfast?—Mutton-chops at eight
(Cook will do them nicely).
Dinner?—What you choose to state,
Served at two precisely.
Bed?—Delicious (not a few
Were the swans who lined it)
As a bachelor, like you,
Could expect to find it!
(Cook will do them nicely).
Dinner?—What you choose to state,
Served at two precisely.
Bed?—Delicious (not a few
Were the swans who lined it)
As a bachelor, like you,
Could expect to find it!
LOVE AND MONEY.
A HOMILY.
Of course, my dear Charley, I hold,
As a poet and moralist should,
That love is far better than gold
(Though gold is undoubtedly good);
And yet, as the proverb declares,
I fear me the doctrine is true,
That in managing human affairs,
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
As a poet and moralist should,
That love is far better than gold
(Though gold is undoubtedly good);
And yet, as the proverb declares,
I fear me the doctrine is true,
That in managing human affairs,
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
101
You wish—for example—to win
A proper companion for life,
(At forty 't is time to begin!)
And so you go courting a wife;
You offer your heart and your purse,
But much as affection may do,
There 's meaning, no doubt, in the verse,
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
A proper companion for life,
(At forty 't is time to begin!)
And so you go courting a wife;
You offer your heart and your purse,
But much as affection may do,
There 's meaning, no doubt, in the verse,
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
You purchase an elegant house,
As an opulent gentleman ought;
And you and your beautiful spouse
By people of Fashion are sought:
But when you remember the way
“Society” chooses her few,
Perhaps you may sigh as you say,
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
As an opulent gentleman ought;
And you and your beautiful spouse
By people of Fashion are sought:
But when you remember the way
“Society” chooses her few,
Perhaps you may sigh as you say,
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
In conjugal matters as well
As those of a worldlier sort,
What virtue in money may dwell
Were worthy a sage's report;
You 're honored—Oh, not for your pelf;
But, taking the rosiest view,
Do you think it is all for yourself?
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
As those of a worldlier sort,
What virtue in money may dwell
Were worthy a sage's report;
You 're honored—Oh, not for your pelf;
But, taking the rosiest view,
Do you think it is all for yourself?
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
Oh, love is a beautiful thing,
A passion of heavenly birth;
But money 's a tyrannous king,
The mightiest monarch on earth;
And, in managing human affairs,
I fear me the doctrine is true,
As the old Gallic proverb declares,
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
A passion of heavenly birth;
But money 's a tyrannous king,
The mightiest monarch on earth;
And, in managing human affairs,
I fear me the doctrine is true,
As the old Gallic proverb declares,
“L'amour fait beaucoup; l'argent fait tout!”
ODE.
ON OCCASION OF THE UNVEILING OF THE BUST OF JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, IN PROSPECT PARK, RROOKLYN, N.Y., SEPTEMBER 27, 1873.
To him who sang of “Home, sweet Home,”
In strains so sweet the simple lay
Has thrilled a million hearts, we come
A nation's grateful debt to pay.
Yet not for him the bust we raise;
Ah no! can lifeless lips prolong
Fame's trumpet voice? The poet's praise
Lives in the music of his song!
In strains so sweet the simple lay
Has thrilled a million hearts, we come
A nation's grateful debt to pay.
Yet not for him the bust we raise;
Ah no! can lifeless lips prolong
Fame's trumpet voice? The poet's praise
Lives in the music of his song!
The noble dead we fondly seek
To honor with applauding breath:
Unheeded fall the words we speak
Upon “the dull, cold ear of death.”
Yet not in vain the spoken word,
Nor vain the monument we raise;
With quicker throbs our hearts are stirred
To catch the nobleness we praise!
To honor with applauding breath:
Unheeded fall the words we speak
Upon “the dull, cold ear of death.”
Yet not in vain the spoken word,
Nor vain the monument we raise;
With quicker throbs our hearts are stirred
To catch the nobleness we praise!
Columbia's sons,—we share his fame;
'T is for ourselves the bust we rear,
That they who mark the graven name
May know that name to us is dear;
Dear as the home the exile sees.—
The fairest spot beneath the sky,—
Where first—upon a mother's knees—
He slept, and where he yearns to die.
'T is for ourselves the bust we rear,
That they who mark the graven name
May know that name to us is dear;
Dear as the home the exile sees.—
The fairest spot beneath the sky,—
Where first—upon a mother's knees—
He slept, and where he yearns to die.
But not alone the lyric fire
Was his; the Drama's muse can tell
His genius could a Kean inspire;
A Kemble owned his magic spell;
A Kean, to “Brutus'” self so true
(As true to Art and Nature's laws,)
He seemed the man the poet drew,
And shared with him the town's applause.
Was his; the Drama's muse can tell
His genius could a Kean inspire;
A Kemble owned his magic spell;
A Kean, to “Brutus'” self so true
(As true to Art and Nature's laws,)
He seemed the man the poet drew,
And shared with him the town's applause.
Kind hearts and brave, with truth severe,
He drew, unconscious, from his own;
O nature rare! But pilgrims here
Will oft'nest say, in pensive tone,
With reverent face and lifted hand,
“'T was he—by Fortune forced to roam—
Who, homeless in a foreign land,
So sweetly sang the joys of home!”
He drew, unconscious, from his own;
O nature rare! But pilgrims here
Will oft'nest say, in pensive tone,
With reverent face and lifted hand,
“'T was he—by Fortune forced to roam—
Who, homeless in a foreign land,
So sweetly sang the joys of home!”
PART OF AN AFTER-DINNER SPEECH.
[_]
SPOKEN AT THE FESTIVAL OF THE 41ST ANNUAL CONVENTION OF ΨΙ ΥΨΙΔΟΝ AT DELMONICO'S, NEW YORK, APRIL 8, 1874.
Dear Brothers: I'm something unhappy. I heard
Such abuse, t' other day, of an innocent word
It roused all the wrath of the mildest of men
To a height as colossal, I fancy, as when
A former occasion provoked the inquiry
In the mind of the Mantuan, “Tantæne iræ?”
You'll say there was reason,—I'll state you the case:
There 's a boy in my house in whose handsomish face
Are features from which one may easily gather
He is fairly entitled to call me his father:
A youngster of thirty; as yet rather slim,
But of excellent promise in stature and limb.
Well,—to tell you the story,—a saucy young boor
Of Johnny's acquaintance came up to the door,
And, ringing the bell in a violent way,
Sent up the Hibernian maiden to say
That a gentleman wanted, a moment, to see
“Mister” (adding the surname belonging to me).
“Bid him come to my study!” I civilly said.
In a minute or so Maggie popped in her head;
“It was not for yourself, sure, the fellow did ax:
He said it was young and not old Mister S—e
He wanted to see!”
Such abuse, t' other day, of an innocent word
It roused all the wrath of the mildest of men
To a height as colossal, I fancy, as when
A former occasion provoked the inquiry
102
You'll say there was reason,—I'll state you the case:
There 's a boy in my house in whose handsomish face
Are features from which one may easily gather
He is fairly entitled to call me his father:
A youngster of thirty; as yet rather slim,
But of excellent promise in stature and limb.
Well,—to tell you the story,—a saucy young boor
Of Johnny's acquaintance came up to the door,
And, ringing the bell in a violent way,
Sent up the Hibernian maiden to say
That a gentleman wanted, a moment, to see
“Mister” (adding the surname belonging to me).
“Bid him come to my study!” I civilly said.
In a minute or so Maggie popped in her head;
“It was not for yourself, sure, the fellow did ax:
He said it was young and not old Mister S—e
He wanted to see!”
And am I to be told
By a blundering booby that I—I am old?
The word, I'm aware, is by no means a new one,
And for people of eighty, no doubt, is the true one;
What incensed my soul to such fierce indignation
Was its very improper, absurd application!
Is he old who can climb to the highest of attics,
And never complain of fatigue or “rheumatics”?
Is he old who, in spite of his fast-thinning curls,
Has a joke for the boys and a smile for the girls?
Is he old whom fair women—(No! not the duress
Of prison or torture shall make me confess!)
Is he old who owes nothing to fraudulent art?
Above all, is he old who is young at the heart?
I rather think not! But, quien sabe? Who knows?
The bud of last evening to-day is a rose;
And roses will fade; and, in like manner, when
We jolly young fellows grow middle-aged men,
Perhaps the Good Father (it surely were kind)
Makes us to our failings convenietly blind.
“Know yourself!” said the Grecian. A difficult task,
And rather too much of a mortal to ask;
We all know the name of the fellow who penned it,
And how he asserted “e cœlo descendit!”
“Know yourself!” It is well; but for my part, my brothers,
I would rather extend my acquaintance with others,
As promising, surely, a better return
Than aught of myself I could possibly learn!
To learn Human Nature is truly an art,
And many imagine they 've got it by heart,
Because they are keen at detecting offenses,
Base motives, sly vices, and shallow pretenses;
Let us study, the rather, to find out the merit
The faultiest neighbor may chance to inherit;
To publish the virtue that's misunderstood,
And always and everywhere seek for the good.
There was one “Paddy Goldsmith,” an author of note,
(And who has not read what “poor Oliver” wrote?)
A scholar, philosopher, writer of plays,
And a poet who still wears the freshest of bays,—
Every dandy in town, every chambermaid Moll,
Could tell of his blunders and laugh at poor “Noll”;
Every coxcomb could see he was homely and rough,
And of follies and foibles had more than enough:
But it took the profoundest of sages to scan
The learning and genius that lay in the man!
Sam Johnson could see, and was bold to declare,
There was spirit and humor and poetry there;
And to fools who might sneer, he had ever this answer:
“You may laugh as you will, sir! and say what you can, sir!
He 's a genuine wit and a wonderful man, sir!”
By a blundering booby that I—I am old?
The word, I'm aware, is by no means a new one,
And for people of eighty, no doubt, is the true one;
What incensed my soul to such fierce indignation
Was its very improper, absurd application!
Is he old who can climb to the highest of attics,
And never complain of fatigue or “rheumatics”?
Is he old who, in spite of his fast-thinning curls,
Has a joke for the boys and a smile for the girls?
Is he old whom fair women—(No! not the duress
Of prison or torture shall make me confess!)
Is he old who owes nothing to fraudulent art?
Above all, is he old who is young at the heart?
I rather think not! But, quien sabe? Who knows?
The bud of last evening to-day is a rose;
And roses will fade; and, in like manner, when
We jolly young fellows grow middle-aged men,
Perhaps the Good Father (it surely were kind)
Makes us to our failings convenietly blind.
“Know yourself!” said the Grecian. A difficult task,
And rather too much of a mortal to ask;
We all know the name of the fellow who penned it,
And how he asserted “e cœlo descendit!”
“Know yourself!” It is well; but for my part, my brothers,
I would rather extend my acquaintance with others,
As promising, surely, a better return
Than aught of myself I could possibly learn!
To learn Human Nature is truly an art,
And many imagine they 've got it by heart,
Because they are keen at detecting offenses,
Base motives, sly vices, and shallow pretenses;
Let us study, the rather, to find out the merit
The faultiest neighbor may chance to inherit;
To publish the virtue that's misunderstood,
And always and everywhere seek for the good.
There was one “Paddy Goldsmith,” an author of note,
(And who has not read what “poor Oliver” wrote?)
A scholar, philosopher, writer of plays,
And a poet who still wears the freshest of bays,—
Every dandy in town, every chambermaid Moll,
Could tell of his blunders and laugh at poor “Noll”;
Every coxcomb could see he was homely and rough,
And of follies and foibles had more than enough:
103
The learning and genius that lay in the man!
Sam Johnson could see, and was bold to declare,
There was spirit and humor and poetry there;
And to fools who might sneer, he had ever this answer:
“You may laugh as you will, sir! and say what you can, sir!
He 's a genuine wit and a wonderful man, sir!”
ODE TO THE LEGISLATURE.
ON THE EXPIRATION OF THE “HUNDRED DAYS.”
O wise Assembly! and O wiser Senate!
I much rejoice to pen it,—
The Hundred Days in which you lived in clover
Are gone and over!
Gone are the Legislators, great and small;
Clerks, Ushers, Porters, Messengers, and all
The crowd of country cousins in the hall!
Gone are the vultures, large and little;
Gone are the venders of cold victual;
Gone are the ladies, short and tall,
The virtuous and the vicious,
The meritorious and the meretricious,
Who follow their vocations
Where you resort;
In short,
The Apple-women, and the sort
With other appellations!
Gone is the patient, patriotic “Lobby”;
Some, who have bagged their game
Laden with wealth—and shame;
And others, leading home their lame
And ill-conditioned hobby,
A little leaner than it came!
I much rejoice to pen it,—
The Hundred Days in which you lived in clover
Are gone and over!
Gone are the Legislators, great and small;
Clerks, Ushers, Porters, Messengers, and all
The crowd of country cousins in the hall!
Gone are the vultures, large and little;
Gone are the venders of cold victual;
Gone are the ladies, short and tall,
The virtuous and the vicious,
The meritorious and the meretricious,
Who follow their vocations
Where you resort;
In short,
The Apple-women, and the sort
With other appellations!
Gone is the patient, patriotic “Lobby”;
Some, who have bagged their game
Laden with wealth—and shame;
And others, leading home their lame
And ill-conditioned hobby,
A little leaner than it came!
Gone, too, the Sharps and Flats who swarm
In secret sessions, and perform
“Feats of the Ring”
Unequaled elsewhere,—not the sort of thing
Where human features catch defacing blows,—
But meaner feats than those,
Degrading legislative Ayes and Noes!
In secret sessions, and perform
“Feats of the Ring”
Unequaled elsewhere,—not the sort of thing
Where human features catch defacing blows,—
But meaner feats than those,
Degrading legislative Ayes and Noes!
O famous Hundred!—
In which (while “rural districts” wondered)
Your little Tullys thundered,
Your Hectors blustered, and your Solons blundered,
And Buncombe—honest ass! was praised—and plundered!
To think! what wind and muscle were expended
(Mere money not to mention)
In quieting dissension!
What righteous bills opposed, and bad defended;
What Acts (and facts) were made and marred and mended
Before the Session ended!
In which (while “rural districts” wondered)
Your little Tullys thundered,
Your Hectors blustered, and your Solons blundered,
And Buncombe—honest ass! was praised—and plundered!
To think! what wind and muscle were expended
(Mere money not to mention)
In quieting dissension!
What righteous bills opposed, and bad defended;
What Acts (and facts) were made and marred and mended
Before the Session ended!
They say, O Legislature! in despite
Of all adverse appearances, you might
Have been much weaker.
(How? I have asked,—but all in vain;
None could, or would, explain!)
But this I freely own, —you had a “Speaker”
That justified the title, and could speak,
In speeches neither few nor weak;
And though he often pained us,—
When at his highest pitch of declamation,
The man's oration, and vocif-oration,
Were really Tremain-dous!
Of all adverse appearances, you might
Have been much weaker.
(How? I have asked,—but all in vain;
None could, or would, explain!)
But this I freely own, —you had a “Speaker”
That justified the title, and could speak,
In speeches neither few nor weak;
And though he often pained us,—
When at his highest pitch of declamation,
The man's oration, and vocif-oration,
Were really Tremain-dous!
Perhaps, O Legislature! since your pay
Is rather small
(I mean, of course, the regular per diem
And not the price of votes when brokers buy 'em),
You saw the Hundredth day
With pleasure, after all.
If so, I will not hint,—there 's little need,—
You and the people were, for once, agreed!
Is rather small
(I mean, of course, the regular per diem
And not the price of votes when brokers buy 'em),
You saw the Hundredth day
With pleasure, after all.
If so, I will not hint,—there 's little need,—
You and the people were, for once, agreed!
Farewell, O Senate! and Assembly, too!
Good-by! adios! a-Dio! adieu!
(I don't say au revoir!)
With common-sense I would n't be at war.
That Legislatures come, it needs must be,
And go, thank Heaven!) but when I see
Your Ways and Means, I think
Of what, upon a time, a person said
Touching an article we eat and drink:
If you 'd enjoy (quoth he) your gingerbread,
Or sip your sweetened coffee with delight,
Of sugar-making pray avoid the sight!
Good-by! adios! a-Dio! adieu!
(I don't say au revoir!)
With common-sense I would n't be at war.
104
And go, thank Heaven!) but when I see
Your Ways and Means, I think
Of what, upon a time, a person said
Touching an article we eat and drink:
If you 'd enjoy (quoth he) your gingerbread,
Or sip your sweetened coffee with delight,
Of sugar-making pray avoid the sight!
And thus, with greater cause,
Would we respect the Laws
(Which should be reverenced to be obeyed),
It is n't best to see them made!
Would we respect the Laws
(Which should be reverenced to be obeyed),
It is n't best to see them made!
WHY: A SONNET.
“Why do I love thee?” Thus, in earnest wise,I answer: Sweet! I love thee for thy face
Of rarest beauty; and for every grace
That in thy voice and air and motion lies;
I love thee for the love—look in thine eyes,—
The melting glance which only one may see
Of all who mark how beautiful they be;
I love thee for thy mind (which yet denies,
For modesty, how wonderful it is)!
I love thee for thy heart so true and warm,
I love thee for thy bosom's hidden charm;
I love thee for thy mouth so sweet to kiss;
Because of these I love thee; yet above
All else, because I cannot choose but love!
LAURA.
IN MEMORIAM.
“O hateful Death!” my angry spirit cries,“Who thus couldst take my darling from my sight,
Shrouding her beauty in sepulchral night;
O cruel! unto prayers and tears and sighs
Inexorable!” “Hush!” my soul replies;
“Be just, O stricken heart! the mortal strife
Which we call ‘death’ is birth to higher life.
Safe in the Father's Mansion in the skies,
She bides thy coming; only gone before
A little while, that at thy parting breath
Thou mayst endure a lighter pain of death,
And gladlier pass beyond this earthly shore;
For, with thy Laura calling from on high,
It cannot, sure, be very hard to die.”
| The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe | |