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SNARL OF A CYNIC: 
 
 A BUY ME 
 
 BY 
 
 BENXEVILLE OTTOMAE HOFFMAN, 
 A Texxsylvania Teutox. 
 
 EPHRATA, LAN. CO., PA. : 
 
 P. MARTIN HEITLER, 
 
 Printer and Publisher for the Author. 
 186S. 
 

 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 
 1868, hy P. Martin Heitler, in the Clerk's office of the 
 District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern 
 District of Pennsylvania. 
 
MY FIH ST REASON FOR RHYMING. 
 
 [My second reason for rhyming, of a serious cast, will be 
 given, if opportunity offers, on a future occasion.] 
 
 OLKS say, that I, nor bard nor dunce, 
 Will rhyme ; — I answer without spleen, 
 
 A village bard did hire me once 
 To turn the crank of his machine. 
 
 That turn I never can forget, 
 
 The thing is sticking in me yet. 
 
PRINTER'S INTRODUCTION. 
 
 It may be considered fatuity for an obscure country prin- 
 ter, to undertake to publish a work in rhyme, when wealthy 
 city publishers, with extensive connections and influence, 
 hesitate to undertake a work of the same character, unless 
 it is by an author of established reputation. The printer 
 has undertaken the present work at his own pecuninary risk. 
 Should it prove an utter failure, there will be some pecuni- 
 ary loss to the printer. Although he is no opulent country 
 gentleman, yet he is sufficiently able to abide the loss that 
 may occur ; and thereafter smoke his cigar with equanimity, 
 entertaining no feeling of regret, except what may arise 
 from his sympathy with the author. Such failure may teach 
 the author, that if he attempts to enter the temple of litera- 
 ture hereafter, he should select a better usher than an 
 obscure country printer. 
 
 The printer thought, perchance the public might be 
 inclined to purchase and read a work by one of that class ot 
 native Americans, known as the " Pennsylvania Dutch," a 
 peculiar class of people, of peculiar habits and customs, and 
 perhaps of peculiar turns of thought ;— perchance that the 
 rhymings of a" Pennsylvania Teuton," might be a novelty 
 to the reading public, and thus, by a stroke of fortune, 
 remunerate the printer for Ms otherwise hazardous under- 
 taking. 
 
 In various parts of the "Snarl," the printer has sup- 
 pressed in all, eleven stanzas. 
 
SNARL OF A CYNIC, 
 
 Ah ! who can tell how hard it is to climb 
 
 The steep where Fame's proud temple shines atar , 
 
 Ah ! who can tell how many a soul sublime 
 
 Has felt the influence of malignant star, 
 
 And waged with fortune an eternal war ; 
 
 Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, 
 
 And Poverty's unconquerable bar, 
 
 In life's low vale remote has pined alone 11TllrTlown i 
 
 Then dropped into the grave, unpitied and unknown. 
 
 Beattie's Minstrel. 
 
 |I\NE eve, when Winter ruled as king, 
 "l The snow-flake fell on land and town, 
 Like feather from a seraph's wing, 
 
 Slow dropping down. 
 
SNARI, OF 
 
 That winter eve of falling snow 
 
 I climbed the mountain's craggy slope, 
 To visit there a man of woe, — 
 
 A misanthrope. 
 
 The world had somehow used him ill, 
 
 He had no money and no wife, 
 No friend except a whisky swill, — 
 Oh bitter life ! 
 
 A pale-faced, unsuccessful man, 
 And of a sullen, cynic mood, 
 Whose mind to much to reverie ran 
 In solitude. 
 
 His sullen scowls with anger rife 
 
 I faced ; — my wish to ease his dole, 
 To pour some sunshine on his life, 
 Balm in his soul. 
 
 My wish was vain that winter day, 
 
 For bitter feelings stirred his soul, 
 And thus he poured his cynic lay, 
 
 And rhyme of dole :- 
 
A CYNIC. 
 
 " Your home 's a rich manorial hall, 
 
 Your study room is snug and cosy, 
 You've health and fortune, friends and all, 
 Your life is rosy. 
 
 I, living in this cahin rude 
 
 With you to-night will hold a parle, 
 And in my misanthropic mood 
 
 Must let me snail. 
 
 You drink rich wines of France and Spain, 
 
 With love and pleasure you are frisky, 
 But I, to deaden thought and pain, 
 
 Drink cheap, bad whisky. 
 
 The aspirations of the boy, 
 
 The lofty hopes of manhood's day, 
 
 My splendid dreams of fame and joy 
 
 Have passed away. 
 
 I dream no more of household glee, 
 Of joys of offspring, home or wife, 
 Alas ! sad destiny for me, 
 
 Rude, sordid life. 
 
SNARL OF 
 
 The confidence of youth is gone, 
 
 My faith in manhood passed away, 
 I see the false, and those who fawn, 
 Must gain the day. 
 
 And wealth is gained by venal men 
 
 With tricks of trade profound and sly, 
 Who know to fawn and cringe, and when 
 To tell a lie. 
 
 Through slimy ways without fatigue, 
 
 Through crooked paths in thieves' disguises, 
 The worldly shrewd by keen intrigue 
 
 Will grasp Life's prizes. 
 
 The honest man whose soul hath scorned 
 
 The guile of those whose hearts are rotten, 
 Must five obscure and die unmourned, 
 And be forgotten. 
 
 The demagogue hath honor's post, — 
 
 How smooth his tongue ! how false his heart ! 
 That base-born wretch can use the most 
 Consummate art. 
 
A CYNIC. 
 
 In every land beneath the sky 
 
 The demagogue 's a curse and bane j- 
 'T is mild to say his honesty 
 
 Is tramontane. 
 
 When burns within the brain, a mind 
 
 Repressed by poverty or fate. 
 
 To preach content is idle wind. 
 
 An idle prate. 
 
 Men preach content, but all in vain ; 
 ,r f will do for an unlettered hind. 
 But not when seethes within the brain 
 Immortal mind. 
 
 Who sing content and rural ease, 
 
 The charms that poor men's cots embower? 
 They are the men whom wealth doth please, 
 The men of power. 
 
 When such superior joy 's beheld 
 
 In poor men's huts, 't is strange the great 
 Will not forsake until compelled 
 
 Their splendid state. 
 
10 SNARL OF 
 
 Men live on earth for happiness, 
 
 And if high station gives it not. 
 Then leave the palace tenantless, 
 And take the cot. 
 
 Let sage philosophers forbear 
 
 To preach content, since it is known 
 Their neighbor's woes they better bear 
 Than crriefs their own. 
 
 But 't is all humbug, — part of that 
 Machinery which holds the boor, 
 A subject to th'aristocrat 
 
 Because he 's poor. 
 
 Alone through long, drear winter nights, 
 
 I sit and mope the hours away, 
 While men in cities see fair sights, 
 Or hear the play. 
 
 No pavement clean for vulgar swains, 
 
 Or lighted street on winter nights, 
 But miry roads and gloomy lanes 
 
 For rustic wights. 
 
A CYNIC. 11 
 
 These long, long winter nights are lone, 
 To poor men that on mountains dwell, 
 When o'er the roads snow drifts are blown, 
 Impassable. 
 
 They cannot reach the distant inn 
 For rustic gossip, talk and joke, 
 Amid its fumes of rum and gin 
 
 And potent smoke. 
 
 There pipes are smoked by each rude clown 
 
 As he the smutty jests doth bandy, 
 Pipes strong in smell, they would knock down 
 A Boston dandy. 
 
 We poor are knaves, or fools, or liars, 
 
 Our life a desert in eclipse, 
 Ours, dingy rooms, gross food, bad fires, 
 And tallow dips. 
 
 Contentment preachers teach not me, 
 
 While snug in your warm cosy rooms, 
 You read fine books, fine pictures see, 
 Mid rare perfumes. 
 
12 SNAEL OF 
 
 The dainty bards in song and lay 
 
 With gold pens praise their lowly neighbor 
 AVho toils and sweats, and bravely say 
 They honor labor ; — 
 
 Bnt ride in coaches, idle still, 
 
 To work too lazy, or not able, — 
 But will they groom the horses ? will 
 
 They clean the stable ? 
 
 And do they know the poor man's lot 
 
 So cosy in their splendid state ? — 
 They talk and fume — the worth is what ? 
 Mere foolish prate. 
 
 This prate — though there are fools who cheer it, 
 
 I dread it more than spook or comet ; — 
 It makes my belly ache to hear it, 
 
 And I could vomit. 
 
 Your parson says he honors labor, 
 
 With mien impressive and demure, 
 But does he help his lowly neighbor 
 To cart manure. 
 
A CYNIC. 13 
 
 Ah no ! such work is quite too sweaty, 
 
 On sweltering days his ease in shade is, 
 His soft white hands are very pretty, 
 Just like a lady's. 
 
 In his snug room, he 'ill pick the spice 
 From Horace, Virgil, Caesar, Livy, 
 But ah ! his nose is far too nice 
 
 To clean the privy. 
 
 We poor are drunkards, sots and scum, 
 
 The rich are not so lowly sunk, 
 On potent brandies they become. 
 Genteely drunk. 
 
 * 
 The poor receive foul jibes and spurns, 
 And vulgar shifts the bard annoys, — 
 It scathed th'imperial mind of Burns, 
 
 And sapped his joys 
 
 'T is sad to feel, that kings of rhyme, 
 
 Proud bards, the godlike men of earth, 
 Should be so poor in their life's prime, 
 And feel a dearth ; 
 
14 SNARL OF 
 
 A dearth of wealth that dunces hold, 
 
 That wealth that bards know how t' enjoy, 
 Yet strange that gold, to fool is doled, 
 Or idiot boy. 
 
 The poor with toils are sore and spent, 
 The healthy rich have amplest leisure 
 To drink from fountains of content 
 
 And wells of pleasure. 
 
 In shining carriage, velvet lined, 
 
 The rich man drives the pleasant road 
 O'er hill and dale with blissful mind, 
 Dressed a la mode. 
 
 Poor men in rough and ragged clothes, 
 
 Must toil through miry ways of Time, 
 Ungarlanded by blooms of prose 
 
 Or wreathes of rhyme. 
 
 Fair maidens smile and greetings pay 
 
 To rich men riding through the park, 
 But at poor men in miry way 
 
 The dogs will bark. 
 
A CYNIC. 15 
 
 Some say the rich have little measure 
 
 Of joy and health ; — 'tis false I wot — 
 The rich have means for health and pleasure 
 The poor have not. 
 
 When rich men have nor joy nor health, 
 
 The fault is not in stars or elves, 
 Or destiny or precious wealth, — 
 
 'T is in themselves. 
 
 There 's wear, and tear of life and health, 
 And sickening trades the poor destroy, 
 So that the happy sons of wealth 
 
 May earth enjoy. 
 
 The rich man reads in healthful air 
 Amid the mountain's cool retreat, 
 Or in high room on easy chair, 
 Or arbor seat. 
 
 The plodding trades are but a fen, 
 
 Where foul diseases all are rife ; — 
 Statistics show that gentlemen 
 
 Have longest life. 
 
16 SNABL OF 
 
 The gentleman is unconfined 
 
 With God's pure air for inspiration ; 
 He uses limbs, and uses mind 
 
 In moderation. 
 
 'T is varied exercise and mirth 
 
 Developes strong-limbed eavalieros, 
 
 Brings out the strongest men of earth, 
 
 Her stalwart heroes. 
 
 'T is not in health the poor are strongest, 
 
 They cannot choose work's proper measure, 
 The gentleman doth live the longest 
 
 With work and pleasure. 
 
 The rich are straight, erect in pose, 
 
 No stooping work for sons of wealth, — 
 And then well dressed, in clean fine clothes — 
 How good for health ! 
 
 I would be rich, so I could dare 
 
 The mountain heights to make me strong, 
 So I might bloom in light and air 
 
 The whole day long. 
 
A CYNIC. 17 
 
 I would be rich, so I could gloat 
 
 On paintings and fine pictured books, 
 Have fountains, vases and a boat 
 
 To skim the brooks. 
 
 I would be rich, for explorations 
 
 Of glens and nooks and mountain springs, 
 And fanciful investigations 
 
 Of dainty things. 
 
 I would be rich, so I could roam 
 
 O'er pleasant lands of old renown, 
 To see cathedral spire or dome, 
 
 In some old town, 
 
 Or ancient castles by the Rhine, 
 Or galleries of wondrous art, 
 Or mountain convent, holy shrine. 
 Or sea-side mart. 
 
 Or in Manhattan write my verse 
 
 To tickle maids or stalwart men, 
 Write roundelays, both sweet and terse, 
 This done, and then 
 
IS SNARL OF 
 
 For relaxation seek my cronies, 
 
 Or else some hours before "t is dark. 
 In si lining phaeton drive my ponies 
 
 Through Central Park. 
 
 To rich men all respect is due, 
 
 Their garb and gold fair maids bewitch, 
 And for judicial justice too. 
 
 One should be rich. 
 
 I woidd be rich with power to bless, 
 
 To help the poor in all their need. — 
 o heavenly joy the fatherless, 
 
 To clothe and feed! 
 
 But more than all, I woidd be rich. 
 To help true genius in his gloom. 
 To place his name in fame's proud niche, 
 And loftiest room. 
 
 Poor men must work, nor stop to sit, 
 At times propitious for romance ; — 
 But wealthy poets may permit 
 
 Their mind to glance 
 

 A cynic. iy 
 
 Through Fancy's realms and Memory's rooms, 
 
 And through Imaginations halls, 
 When witching, sunny light illumes 
 The frescoed walls. 
 
 1 would not lose, if fate were kind, 
 
 One glorious day beneath the sun, 
 And not like servant cribbed, confined, 
 In kitchen dun. 
 
 The poor men are debarred by fate 
 From possible and actual lives. 
 
 From travel, pageants, lore, estate. 
 
 And pleasant drives. 
 
 The rich man walks by fragrant meads, 
 
 By shady woods or clover blooms. 
 Or in arm-chair his paper reads 
 
 Mid well lit rooms. 
 
 Poor men must work mid damps and chills 
 
 Mid nauseous smells as foul as tombs, 
 By scorching fires, or dusty mills. 
 Or stifling rooms. 
 
20 SNARL OF 
 
 Must stand with danger front to front 
 
 In painting tall cathedral spires, 
 Or in the war must stand the "brunt 
 Of foemen's fires. 
 
 Steam-engines may explode, or fate 
 
 May strike with rank and poisoned air, 
 Or mines cave in to suffocate 
 
 The toilers there. 
 
 On land and sea the rich are hlest, 
 For when by spicy isles we float, 
 The rich beneath silk awnings rest- 
 I row the boat. 
 
 And from the deck the rich behold 
 
 The arching sky or rolling waves, 
 But we poor devils in the hold 
 
 Are galley-slaves. 
 
 Victuals and clothes are bought with money, 
 
 And various joys on it dependent ; 
 Thus rich men's jokes are always funny, 
 Their wit resplendent. 
 
A CYNIC. 21 
 
 Prints, pageants, pomps, the rich can see, 
 
 Hear operas, plays and farces, 
 We poor men toil and starve, and we 
 May kiss their 
 
 'Tis so ordained, as you conceive, 
 
 One wears a crown, one hears a thong ; — 
 Perhaps, perhaps, hut I helieve 
 
 There 's something wrong. 
 
 The world 's hewitched hy money's glare, 
 
 No matter how he did amass it, 
 
 The knave is honored everywhere 
 
 If he but has it. 
 
 E'en villages fond greetings give, 
 
 And welcomings as sweet as honey, 
 
 To those who come with them to live 
 
 With lots of money. 
 
 The city's dainty dames confound us, 
 
 And shrink from us the sordid poor ; 
 The vulgar odors that surround us, 
 They can't endure 
 
22 SfcARL OF 
 
 Proud fashion's belle, th'aristocrat, 
 
 May sneer at country pans and kittles, * 
 Though proud her mouth, yet into that 
 She puts the victuals. 
 
 Your queenly belle in all the climes 
 
 From far Alaska to Chaldea, 
 Like vulgar girls will have sometimes 
 A diarrhoea. 
 
 Well dressed and rich, I would not be 
 
 The butt of any damsel's snickerings, 
 But more than all, I would be free 
 
 From sixpence bickerings. 
 
 The poor have brawls for little things, 
 
 And which a sixpence woidd set right ; — 
 Necessity brings qharrelings, 
 
 For life they fight. 
 
 * The Cynic here followed the vulgar proiiounciation, 
 no doubt to render the rhyme perfect. The Lexicographers 
 spell and pronounce it differently. 
 
a BYjnc. 23 
 
 These vulgar strifes the poor endure 
 
 In villages without remissness, 
 Where Mrs. Grundy dwells secure. 
 
 And hath much business, 
 
 Is worm- wood to a soul refined 
 
 That rasps the spirit quite away, 
 That lowers the standard of the mind 
 And glooms the day. 
 
 The wit is trite, and lame and tame, 
 Of your unmoneyed village dandy, 
 Who says, that poverty 's no shame, 
 
 Though quite unhandy. 
 
 Poverty yields no pleasing gifts, 
 
 Its toilsome sameness rives and tires, 
 It hath compelled, penmious shifts, 
 
 And cramped desires. 
 
 Envy and spite in force pervade 
 
 The hamlet's lowly ranks of life, 
 And chickens, pigs, that lots invade, 
 
 Produce great strife* 
 
24 SNARL OP 
 
 — He turned from me as from a spoiler, 
 As though, in his rude mountain den, 
 Some poor, imaginary toiler 
 
 Were present then. 
 
 He turned from me with haughtiness, 
 
 And souring memories o'er him broke- 
 He seemed to swell with bitterness, 
 
 And thus he spoke : — 
 
 " You carried hod on sweltering days 
 To build a house for you now shut, 
 And tired, at night through alley-ways, 
 Slunk to your hut. 
 
 That house hath alcoves and recesses, 
 
 Bay-windows, where the soul is fraught 
 With poems full of tendernesses, 
 
 And fragrant thought. 
 
 Amid the arbors, still and shaded, 
 Upon some tranquil afternoon, 
 What wondrous poems could be braided 
 In dreamy June; 
 
A CYNIC. 25 
 
 There, in that mansion proud and gay, 
 
 Poor toiler, see the hundred lights ! 
 By outside views, see pomp's array 
 On gala nights ! 
 
 You dare not tread those carpets soft, 
 
 Nor talk beneath the chandeliers ; 
 Poor toiler ! there, you would be scoffed, 
 A thing for jeers. 
 
 Yes, gaze upon the maidens there, 
 
 Who waltz amid the parlor's glare, 
 Then back to your rude hut to share 
 Its want and care. 
 
 Back to your wife, and tell your freaks, 
 
 What you so sneakingly have seen, 
 And get her hate, as her heart speaks — 
 ' It might have been.' 
 
 We poor men toil and sweat, for which 
 
 We get the world's disdain and spurnings, 
 And the result is that the rich 
 
 Enjoy the earnings. 
 
I'd" SNARL OF 
 
 Can this be right ? O heaven ! I plead, 
 'T is not your work, hut management 
 Of hireling priests of every creed 
 
 Who preach content. 
 
 And if the poor, who are the masses, 
 
 But knew their right, and dared assert it. 
 This earth would know nor castes nor classes 
 Which now pervert it. 
 
 Republics are, our own but is, 
 
 (What care I for your ridicule ?) 
 A flight advance on monarchies. 
 Or despot rule. 
 
 Ye toilers ! be unswayed by priests, 
 
 Be unseduced by phrases sweet, 
 Be not the fools to make the feasts 
 That others eat. 
 
 Poor men submit to priestly hoaxing, 
 Receiving maxims with assurance, 
 Cozened by Paley's purchased coaxing 
 To glim endurance, 
 
A CYNIC. 27 
 
 Faley was rich, well fed, and fat, 
 
 And had two thousand pounds a year, 
 But he was not content with that ; — 
 It doth appear 
 
 He wished a mitre on his head. 
 
 And ' conscience he could not afford 
 To have.' I've quoted what he said, 
 Let 's take his word. 
 
 A strong suspect my spirit stuns, 
 
 That there is lore I can't attain. 
 The occult lore of chosen ones, 
 
 Who rule and reign. 
 
 — Th'imaginary toiler woke 
 
 The Cynic's fancies venomous. 
 And then to me again he spoke 
 
 In substance thus : — 
 
 "O parson! stop your prate and boast, 
 
 Don't apotheosize the man 
 Who did not die at duty's post, 
 In duty's van. 
 
28 S^ARL OF 
 
 Why thus disgrace your sacred gown 
 
 And he religion's empirics ? 
 Why drag our high religion down 
 For politics ? 
 
 Afraid to speak 'gainst sin and pride ? 
 
 'Gainst impious men of high renown ? 
 If courage fails, then throw aside 
 
 The sacred gown. 
 
 ******* 
 Poor and obscure are those who fought 
 
 Amid the ranks of great divisions, 
 Reward or fame were robbed or bought 
 By politicians. 
 
 And deeds were done of bravest sin 
 By privates poor that badly stank, 
 While coward dolts who had rich kin 
 Had general's rank. 
 
 Reports and papers puff and tell 
 
 Of wealthy dolts as brave and great, 
 When these same dolts the very smell 
 Of powder hate. 
 
A CYNIC. 29 
 
 Privates return, though brave and skilled, 
 
 To natal towns without parade, 
 For them no fatted calf is killed, 
 
 No fuss is made. 
 
 The drunken colonel what awaits ? 
 Or brigadier as dumb as mules ? 
 Why, grand receptions, banquets, fetes, 
 And cheers from fools. 
 
 He went to war, a martial quack, 
 
 To steal, and not the foe to slash, 
 Patched up his character, came back 
 With fame and cash. 
 
 Came back with his rum-hued proboscis, 
 
 And character repaired anew, 
 To take his chance for some fat office, 
 And get it too. 
 
 Land of my birth ! I !ove thee well ! 
 
 Land of my sires ! Land of the free ! 
 No feeling can my bosom swell 
 
 Untrue to thee. 
 
30 SNABL OF 
 
 Yet I am sad our men ran wild, 
 
 So shoulder straps can rale the roast, 
 While better men are thus exiled 
 
 From honor's post. 
 
 The clowns will fight and tear their hair, 
 
 Two office-seekers to promote, 
 When neither for the clowns doth care 
 Except their vote. 
 
 Our legislation is controlled 
 
 By rogues with fraud and shrewd devices ; 
 Law-maker's votes are bought and sold 
 At various prices. 
 
 The public good, my mind recalls, 
 
 Once moved the patriot's zeal and passion, 
 But now in legislative halls 
 
 Quite out of fashion. 
 
 The State 's a humbug top to toe, 
 
 And fraud and cunning are the winners, 
 Poor, honest men have not a show, 
 
 Let's call 'em sinners. 
 
A CYNIC. 31 
 
 I want no fame, I'm poor, ill bred, 
 Farewell to fame ! I cannot win it : 
 
 My purse like Jerry 's head, 
 
 Has nothing in it. 
 
 Put money in your purse, ye bards ! 
 Be that the end of your ambition ! 
 Then vou can win the world's regards 
 And recognition. 
 
 A purse-proud dunce the patron may 
 Enact ; — the price I'm sad to say it. 
 Is flattery, which some poets pay. 
 
 And let them pay it. 
 
 When fawning wins the dolt's regard, 
 And wins the patron with its spell, 
 Let fame's applause go to the bard 
 
 Who fawns so well. 
 
32 SNAEL OF 
 
 Poor, simple race ! you are forestalled, 
 
 You vainly strive at fame to clutch ; — 
 I mean that race politely called 
 
 " Benighted Dutch." * 
 
 Perhaps, 'tis true, my lyre doth squeak, 
 Since city club my song ne'er sutlers, 
 That mutual admiration clique 
 
 Of well-trained puffers. 
 
 A school-girl, whose papa is rich, 
 
 (Important point,) writes silly chapters, 
 O'er which her clique will take a twitch 
 Of puffing raptures. 
 
 Her moony stuff, sans sense or pith, 
 
 Her wealthy friends will read and drone 
 In splendid parlors? scented with 
 
 * Vide William C. Bryant's New York Evening Post of 
 January 2, 1857, in which the Pennsylvania Dutch are held 
 up to scorn as a benighted people, who must first he taught 
 to read> ere they will know how to vote. 
 
A CYNIC. 33 
 
 Her silly prose or sicklier rhyme 
 
 Are in her clique's newspapers printed, 
 And she is famous for the time 
 
 With puffs unstinted. 
 
 The school of Lakers, staid and prim, 
 
 Each other puffed, (did you e'er read it ?) 
 Coleridge was one, alas ! for him, 
 
 He did not need il. 
 
 The city cliques and coteries 
 
 Are mutual admiration clubs, 
 And cunning manufactories 
 
 Of famous grubs. 
 
 'T is true these grubs at death go down 
 
 From proud distinction's eminence, 
 But they through life enjoy renown 
 And consequence. 
 
 The bard from paths of fame withdraws, 
 
 Since there the grubs by thousands stray, 
 Impediments to worth, because 
 
 They clog the way. 
 
34 SNARL OF 
 
 'T is sad, that bards, the true elect, 
 
 Untasting fame, their worth unprized, 
 Remain for years in chill neglect, 
 Unrecognized. 
 
 A rustic youth, perchance quite poor, 
 
 Writes faulty verse, hut bold, sincere, 
 His recompense but silence, or 
 
 At most a sneer. 
 
 Poor merit withers sad and lone 
 
 In cold neglect in this our land, 
 Because it gets no cheering tone, 
 
 N o helping hand. 
 
 I'm soured, and I dare aver it, 
 
 I want the milk of human kindness, 
 When I perceive that cliques to merit 
 Affect a blindness. 
 
 My mood is fierce whene'er I see 
 
 The fulsome puffs on verses weak, 
 Whose writer is of high degree, 
 
 And hath a clique. 
 
A CYNIC. 35 
 
 'T is then my mood is fierce, indeed, 
 I feel like having cliques uprooted, 
 Satirically pilloried, 
 
 Or executed. 
 
 I thought by merit all were rated, 
 My honest nature taught me so, 
 But I was unsophisticated — 
 
 Quite green you know. 
 
 The publisher can make the bard, 
 
 And buys the fame because it pays, 
 And humble worth is thus debarred 
 Of^)oet's bays. 
 
 Renown 's enjoyed by empirics 
 
 Through Boston schemes in club and sect, 
 And that New Yorkers know the tricks, 
 I half suspect. 
 
 The city bards that hear the plays 
 
 Know cheap claptraps that shake the house, 
 While stronger bards by rustic ways 
 
 Can't smell a mouse. 
 
36 SNARL OF 
 
 We country bards are green as grass, 
 
 The elephant we never saw, 
 We never looked through opera glass, 
 We 're much too raw. 
 
 In Fashion's ranks we never bloomed, 
 Or in gay garb displayed our parts, 
 Our handkerchiefs are unperfumed 
 Except by ." 
 
 — He ceased his snarl. 1 knew my aid 
 
 Was useless for his mind's relief, 
 And as the night was la£e, I made 
 
 ]NIy answer brief: — 
 
 " Executive ability 
 
 You need. An indolence disgusting 
 Is your great fault. In privacy, 
 
 Your soul is rusting. 
 
 With smoke, and drink, and reverie, 
 
 You fritter precious life away, 
 Pass gloomy days, forego all glee, 
 
 And hate the gay. 
 
A CYNIC. 37 
 
 Remember this, there are but few 
 
 That do not feel life's alternations ; 
 To days of joy, grim nights ensue 
 
 With lamentations. 
 
 When darksome night rests on the homes 
 
 By Huron's lake or Michigan, 
 The gorgeous day gleams on the domes 
 Of Ispahan. 
 
 Along this healthful mountain glen 
 
 Stern winter's glooms not always rest, 
 For bonny June will come again 
 
 In splendor drest. 
 
 Then dream along the woodland rill, 
 
 And fancies weave in mountain glen, 
 And you may build a rhyme that will 
 Astonish men. 
 
 Your soul hath far too much of hate 
 
 For politicians and the priests, 
 And envy for the nabob's 3 tate, 
 
 And pleasure's feasts. 
 
38 SNARL OF 
 
 Your jaundiced eye all men hath clad 
 
 With knavery, but you mistake them, 
 Bad men there are, but not all bad, 
 
 As you would make them. 
 
 Your views of life are sadly wrong, 
 
 And men and things to you unknown, 
 For honest men are in the throng, 
 
 And on the throne. 
 
 There is one thing makes life sublime, 
 That honest men to earth are given ; 
 The noblest gift in realms of Time, 
 
 This side of Heaven. 
 
 If you possess the poet's key, 
 
 You can unlock, in sold enthrone them, 
 More pleasures in the woods you see, 
 
 Than those who own them. 
 
 The arts, man's treasured heritage ! 
 
 Around life's pathway still must fling 
 Sweet blooms in this material age, 
 
 When Trade is King. 
 
A CYNIC. 39 
 
 The gracing arts can never die : — 
 
 Ply painter's brush, or poet's pen, 
 Or earth 's a desert, or a sty, 
 
 Or savage den. 
 
 Faint not in life's important fight, 
 
 But put the hero's armor on, 
 And soon shall gleam in glory's light, 
 Thy gonfalon ! 
 
 Mid all chagrins of this our life, 
 
 Though passions fume and rogues will plan, 
 Be honest, brave — in storm Or strife, 
 Be thou a man ! 
 
 O bard ! let Right thy soid expand, 
 
 Guard well the earnest of thy youth, 
 Brave be thy heart and strong thy hand, 
 To strike for Truth ! 
 
 Though Rank treats bards as underlings, 
 Yet their renown shall bloom, I trust, 
 When Bishops, Presidents, and Kings, 
 Are fameless dust. 
 
40 SNARL OP 
 
 True poets ne'er are disappointed, 
 
 Because shut out from rich men's feasts, 
 For poets are the Lord's Anointed, 
 
 And Truth's High-Priests. 
 
 — I ceased. He smiled with scornful leer 
 As though a school-boy had declaimed, 
 He looked as if I were small-heer, 
 
 And then exclaimed : — 
 
 " Your talk is rant and rigmarole, 
 
 Mere ad captandam froth and foam. 
 Which may deceive some silly soul 
 
 In famed Buncombe.'' 
 
 — I left him to his lonely cell, 
 
 Barren in love and fond caresses, 
 In my bright home to ponder well, 
 His bitternesses. 
 
 1 briefly have condemned the strain 
 
 The Cynic used ; — although forsooth 
 His talk, my friends, is not in vain, 
 If it have truth. 
 
 WIS 
 

 
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