 | Poems |  |
163
DAY DREAMS—NO FICTION.
I.
Some visions I have lately had—(Dreams ever are my teachers)—
They tell me men are running mad,
And women turning preachers.
Since days of Bible rule are o'er,
I venture the assertion,
Ye'll read above the chapel door,
Souls taken for conversion,
In full, some day.
II.
Men, like a flock of hungry sheepWhen one goes out to feed them,
Beset their feeder in a heap
Wherever he may lead them.
Take from the scaffold or the bay,
But get a pitch-fork full;
The one is “stubble, wood and hay,”
The other nigger's wool,
And black, this day.
III.
It matters not how gross the food,So long as it be new;
If swallowed soon it may be good,
'T will never do to chew.
If one not overfast with haste
Should ruminate it long,
He 'd find, besides a sickish taste,
It savored something strong,
I think, to-day.
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IV.
Some wax so hot with pious zeal,It makes their faces glister;
Query—might they not better feel
To shave the head and blister?
This treatment of humanity
Is said to bring relief
To those whose sail of sanity
Is taken in a reef,
Some breezy day.
V.
The many wonders of the dayAre not those of creation;
E'en Beelzebub has learned to pray,
But drives his old vocation!
How oft ye'll mind the fervent saint
Within the house of prayer;
But free him once from its restraint,
He'll make the devil stare,
Amazed, some day!
VI.
'T is strange to see the modest fair,Sweet as the dews of Hermon,
Call for a blush-provoking prayer,
Or brothel-gendered sermon.
'T is strange to hear some folks at least
'Bout southern bondage rave,
Who more abuse their working beast
Than planter does his slave,
On any day.
VII.
Ye Radicals! full well I knowI win from you no bays;
I scruple not to tell you so,
And leave you to your ways.
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My fire-brand-dealing brother!
'T is not for me to **** **** ****,
And lay it to another,
Off-hand, some day.
VIII.
But Heaven long preserve the saltThat yet preserves this valley!
Your father's ancient crest exalt
And round the symbol rally;
And let your saving power be felt,
And let your light be seen,
And take old measures in your belt,
Good order in your mien—
Ye'll win the day.
IX.
Ye modest daughters of the vale,I hail you like a brother!
Wherein is different from the male
The politician mother?
To modesty, that brilliant prize,
The woman has pre-emption,
But if she holds not what she buys
It flies beyond redemption
On future day.
X.
But ye who still possess the same,Endeavor to preserve it;
'T is well to have a goodly name,
'T is better to deserve it.
So may your joys be multiplied,
Your fondest hopes increase,
Your measured moments sweetly glide
And all your “paths be peace,”
And lead to day!
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