 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE.
I.
Fast through the sombre pine-forests I flash,Pounding the track with monotonous crash,
Lighting the gloom with a comet-like glare,
Thrilling with noises unearthly the air,
Startling the turkey and coon from their sleep,—
Mighty with motion, resistless I sweep.
Bong! Bong!
Smashing along!
I lighten my road with a bit of a song!
II.
O, I can sing, though of iron my throat,And discordant my wild, supernatural note!
And the song that I sing is of danger and dread,
The midnight collision, the quivering dead;
The power imperial that nothing can stay;
The myriad of perils that lurk by the way.
Bong! Bong!
Crashing along!
I shorten the road with a bit of a song!
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III.
Ho there, old stoker! who think you controlThis iron-ribbed animal, body and soul;
Why, one pant of my lungs and one heave of my flank
Would flash you down yonder precipitous bank;
So don't be too proud of your muscle and bones,
For sixty feet down there are horrible stones!
Ding! Dong!
Bumping along!
Don't think that I'm singing your funeral song!
IV.
For I know that behind me I carry a treasure,And it thrills through my nerves with a singular pleasure.
There the bride by her newly-wed husband reposes,
And the bronze of his cheek is faint flushed by her roses;
And the pale mother sits with her babe at her bosom,
Like a lily that just has unfolded a blossom.
Bong! Bong!
Gently along!
Soft as the winds of the summer my song!
V.
But away with all sentiment! I am a steedThat lives on the wild inspiration of speed!
I feed upon distance, I grapple with space;
My soul is a furnace,—my life is a race;
The long prairie shakes with my thunderous tread,
And my dissonance curdles the air overhead!
Bong! Bong!
Madly along!
The mountains I split with reverberant song!
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VI.
Yet sometimes I think, when I'm housed for the night,I may live to behold the decay of my might;
For not far from my stable I often behold
A decrepit old Loco, once gallant and bold;
Now his piston is gouty, his boiler is “bust,”
And the gold of his harness is eaten with rust.
Ding! Dong!
Rotting so long,
With never a mouthful of coals, or a song!
VII.
O, better to die in the hour of my pride!Far better to perish in tunnel or tide!
Ha! what red light is this that 's advancing amain?
'T is my rival returning,—the haughty down train!
Clear the track! I'm upon you! Hurrah! what a smash!
There, old fellow, I think I have settled your hash!
Bong! Bong!
Slowly along!
I'm rather too crippled to finish my song!
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |