(Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness. Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell chimeras, Monsters, that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do,As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou mayst raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze; But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart. Brother of Bacchus, later born! Or judge of thee meant: only thou Scent to match thy rich perfume Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue ! Irony all, and feigned abuse, Or, as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing, whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days A king's consort is a queen Some collateral sweets, and snatch GO, FEEL WHAT I HAVE FELT. By a young lady who was told that she was a monomaniac in her hatred of alcoholic liquors.] Go, feel what I have felt, Go, bear what I have borne; Go, weep as I have wept O'er a loved father's fall; Go to my mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer; Wipe from her cheek the tear; WE are two travellers, Roger and I. Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank - and starved together. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there's been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle (This out-door business is bad for the strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings! No, thank ye, sir, I never drink; Roger and I are exceedingly moral, Are n't we, Roger? see him wink! Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty too, - see him nod his head? What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk! He understands every word that's said, The truth is, sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets There is n't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin ! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter! We'll have some music, if you're willing, And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir !) Shall march a little. Start, you villain! She's married since, a parson's wife; 'T was better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped! You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change! Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your offi- I had a mother so proud of me! cer! Why not reform? That's easily said; Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, And there are times when, mad with thinking, Is there a way to forget to think? At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, If you had seen her, so fair and young, That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 'T was well she died before- Do you know This pain; then Roger and I will start. I'm better now; that glass was warming. For supper and bed, or starve in the street. But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; The sooner the better for Roger and me! THE POOR MAN AND THE FIEND. A FIEND once met a humble man Where music circled sweet; And light and warmth cheered the wanderer's From frost and darkness screened, Ah! well if he ne'er had knelt to that fiend, And when, from rising till set of sun, Thou hast toiled in the heat or snow, O sweet content! The poor man had health, more dear than gold; Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring? To toil the June day long; And the fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud, "Thy strength thou must forego, Or thou no worshipper art of mine"; Three children blest the poor man's home,- I want an evening sacrifice"; And the poor man ne'er said "No!" A young wife sat by the poor man's fire, Who, since she blushed a bride, Had gilded his sorrow, and brightened his joys, His guardian, friend, and guide. Foul fall the fiend! he gave command, Bid thy young wife drain it to the dregs"; O, misery now for this poor man! Next the fiend his godlike reason took, And when the sentinel mind was gone, And marvel of marvels! - he murmured not; The poor man ne'er said "No!" Now, men and matrons in your prime, Come listen, with soul as well as ear, O, listen! till your brain whirls round, That in England's isle all this befell, And the name of the fiend was - DRINK ! REV. MR. MACLELLAN. THE HAPPY HEART. ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! T. DECKER. SWEET IS THE PLEASURE. SWEET is the pleasure Itself cannot spoil! Is not true leisure One with true toil? Thou that wouldst taste it, Still do thy best; Such a sight found. Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to its sphere. "T is the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean After its life. Deeper devotion Nowhere hath knelt; Fuller emotion Heart never felt. "T is loving and serving The highest and best; "T is onwards! unswerving, And that is true rest. JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. |