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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 WILLIAM OILMAN THOMPSON. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE MONEY-KING 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
-Library. 
 
 California- 
 
p 
 
THE 
 
 M O NE Y-KIN G 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS 
 
 M DCCC LX. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE, 
 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the District of 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
 H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
To MRS. GEORGE P. MARSH : 
 
 A Lady endowed with the best Gifts of Nature and 
 Culture, and adorned with all Womanly Graces, this 
 volume is inscribed by her Friend, 
 
 The Author. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ABOUT ten years ago, at the instance of my friend, 
 JAMES T. FIELDS, Esq., and with much misgiving, I 
 ventured on the publication of a volume of poems. 
 For the favor it has found with the public, as 
 evinced in a demand for sixteen editions of the book ; 
 and with the critics, as shown in many kind and 
 scholarly reviews, I take this occasion to express 
 my grateful acknowledgments. Of the little which I 
 have written since the first publication of that volume, the 
 greater part will be found in this. In the arrangement 
 of my materials, I have put " The Money-King " in 
 front, simply on account of its length ; as, in military 
 usage, the tallest soldier is commonly placed at the 
 head of the file. For the two episodes which inter 
 rupt the thread of this otherwise consecutive perform 
 ance, I must plead the authority of greater names, 
 ancient and modern. The poem entitled " The Way 
 of the World," is little more than a paraphrase of a 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 passage in a prose story lately published in Frazer s 
 Magazine ; and the plot of the Chinese Tale is mainly 
 borrowed from an extremely clever English book, enti 
 tled " The Porcelain Tower." The rest of the pieces, 
 for aught I can say, are as original as the verses of 
 other men who have the misfortune to write at this 
 rather late period in the history of letters ; but if (as 
 may possibly happen) any expressions which I have 
 supposed to be my own, should be found in the works 
 of earlier writers, I can only answer, with the hearty 
 indignation of old DONATUS : " Pereant isti qui ante 
 nostra dixerunt ! " 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE MONEY-KING, 13 
 
 I M GROWING OLD, ...... 33 
 
 SPES EST VAXES, 36 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD, 38 
 
 THE HEAD AND THE HEART, .... 40 
 
 MY CASTLE IN SPAIN, 42 
 
 A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT, .... 45 
 
 DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED ? ... 50 
 
 EARLY RISING, 53 
 
 IDEAL AND REAL, 56 
 
 HOW THE MONEY GOES, 00 
 
 TALE OF A DOG: IN TWO PARTS, .... 62 
 
 LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER, .... 68 
 
 HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE, . . . . 71 
 
 THE JOLLY MARINER, 74 
 
 YE TAILYOR-MAN, ....... 79 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY : AN ECLOGUE, . . 82 
 
 MY FAMILIAR, .... 87 
 
 HOW THE LAWYERS GOT A PATRON SAINT, . 91 
 
 THE KING AND THE COTTAGER, .... 94 
 
 LOVE AND LUCRE, 103 
 
 DEATH AND CUPID, 107 
 
 THE FAMILY-MAN, 109 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 NE CREDE COLOKI, . . . . .111 
 
 CLARA TO CLOE, . . . . . . H3 
 
 CLOE TO CLARA, . . . . . . .116 
 
 WISHING, 120 
 
 RICHARD OF GLOSTER, 123 
 
 HO-HO; OR THE GOLDEN BELT, . . . . 132 
 
 TOM BROWN IN GOTHAM, . . . . .139 
 
 POST-PRANDIAL VERSES, . . . . 151 
 
 LINES ON MY THIRTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY, . . 155 
 
 SONNET TO , 157 
 
 ON A FAMOUS WATER-SUIT, 158 
 
 KISSING CASUISTRY, 158 
 
 THE LOST CHARACTER, 159 
 
 REVERSING THE FIGURES, 159 
 
 TO A POETICAL CORRESPONDENT, .... 159 
 
 A DILEMMA, 160 
 
 ON A LONG-WINDED ORATOR, . . . .160 
 
 THE THREE WIVES: A JUBILATION, . . . 161 
 
 THE PRESS 165 
 
 NOTES, 181 
 
THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 A POEM DELIVERED BEFORE THE PHI BETA KAl PA SOCIETY OF 
 YALE COLLEGE 1854. 
 
THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 As landsmen, sitting in luxurious ease, 
 Talk of the dangers of the stormy seas ; 
 As fireside travellers, with portentous mien, 
 Tell tales of countries they have never seen ; 
 As parlor-soldiers, graced with fancy-scars, 
 Rehearse their bravery in imagined wars ; 
 As arrant dunces have been known to sit 
 In grave discourse of wisdom and of wit ; 
 As paupers, gathered in congenial flocks, 
 Babble of banks, insurances, and stocks ; 
 As each is oft nest eloquent of what 
 He hates or covets, but possesses, not ; 
 As cowards talk of pluck ; misers, of waste ; 
 Scoundrels, of honor ; country-clowns, of taste ; 
 Ladies, of logic ; devotees, of. sin ;. 
 
THE MONEY-KIXG. 
 
 Topers, of water ; temperance-men, of gin ; 
 I sing of MONEY ! no ignoble theme, 
 But loftier far than poetasters dream, 
 Whose fancies, soaring to their native moon, 
 Rise like a bubble or a gay balloon, 
 Whose orb aspiring takes a heavenward flight, 
 Just in proportion as it s thin and light ! 
 
 Kings must have Poets. From the earliest times, 
 Monarchs have loved celebrity in rhymes ; 
 From good King Robert, who, in Petrarch s days, 
 Taught to mankind the proper use of bays, 
 And, singling out the prince of Sonneteers, 
 Twined wreaths of laurel round his blushing ears ; 
 Down to the Queen, who, to her chosen bard, 
 In annual token of her kind regard, 
 Sends, not alone the old poetic greens, 
 But, like a woman and the best of queens, 
 Adds to the leaves, to keep them fresh and fine, 
 The wholesome moisture of a pipe of wine ! 
 So may her minstrel, crowned with royal bays, 
 Alternate praise her pipe, and pipe her praise ! 
 E en let him chant his smooth, euphonious lays, 
 
THE MOXEY-KING. 15 
 
 A loftier theme my humbler muse essay? ; 
 A mightier monarch be it hers to sing, 
 And claim, her laurel from the Money- King ! 
 
 Great was King Alfred; and if history state 
 His actions truly, good as well as great. 
 Great was the Norman ; he whose martial hordes 
 Taught law and order to the Saxon lords, 
 With gentler thoughts their rugged minds imbued, 
 And raised the nation whom he first subdued. 
 Great was King Bess ! I see the critic smile, 
 As though the muse mistook her proper style ; 
 But to her purpose she will stoutly cling, 
 The royal maid was " every inch a King ! " 
 Great was Napoleon, and I would that fate 
 Might prove his namesake-nephew half as great ; 
 Meanwhile this hint I venture to advance : 
 What France admires is good enough for France ! 
 Great princes were they all ; but greater far 
 Than English King, or mighty Russian Czar, 
 Or Pope of Rome, or haughty Queen of Spain, 
 Baron of Germany, or Royal Dane, 
 Or Gallic Emperor, or Persian Khan, 
 
16 THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 Or any other merely mortal man, 
 Is the great monarch that my muse would sing, 
 That mighty potentate, the Money-King ! 
 His Kingdom vast extends o er every land, 
 And nations bow before his high command ; 
 The weakest tremble, and his power obey, 
 The strongest honor, and confess his sway. 
 He rules the Rulers ! e en the tyrant Czar 
 Asks his permission ere he goes to war ; 
 The Turk, submissive to his royal might, 
 By his consent has gracious leave to fight ; 
 Whilst e en Britannia makes her humblest bow 
 Before her Barings, not her Barons now, 
 Or on the Rothschild suppliantly calls, 
 (Her affluent "uncle" with the golden balls,) 
 Begs of the Jew that he will kindly spare 
 Enough to put her trident in repair, 
 And pawns her diamonds, while she humbly craves 
 Leave of the Money- King once more to " rule the 
 waves ! " 
 
 He wears no crown upon his royal head, 
 But many millions in his purse, instead ; 
 
THE MOXEY-KING. 17 
 
 He keeps no halls of state ; but holds his court 
 In dingy rooms where greed and thrift resort ; 
 In iron chests his wondrous wealth he hoards ; 
 Banks are his parlors ; brokers are his lords, 
 Bonds, bills, and mortgages, his favorite books, 
 Gold is his food, and coiners are his cooks ; 
 Ledgers, his records ; stock-reports, his news ; 
 Merchants, his yeomen, and his bondsmen, Jews ; 
 Kings are his subjects,, gamblers are his knaves, 
 Spendthrifts, his fools, and misers are his slaves ! 
 The good, the bad, his golden favor prize, 
 The high, the low, the simple, and the wise, 
 The young, the old, the stately, and the gay, 
 All bow obedient to his royal sway ! 
 
 See where, afar, the bright Pacific shore 
 Gleams in the sun with sands of shining ore,. 
 His last, great empire rises to the view, 
 And shames the wealth of India and Peru! 
 Here, throned within his gorgeous " golden gate," 
 He wields his sceptre o er the rising State ; 
 Surveys his conquest with a joyful eye, 
 Nor for a greater heaves a single sigh ! 
 
18 THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 Here, quite beyond the classic poet s dream, 
 Pactolus runs in every winding stream ; 
 The mountain cliffs the glittering ore enfold, 
 And every reed that rustles whispers, " gold ! " 
 
 If to his sceptre some dishonor clings, 
 
 Why should we marvel ? tis the fate of Kings ! 
 
 Their power too oft perverted by abuse, 
 
 Their manners cruel, or their morals loose, 
 
 The best at times have wandered far astray 
 
 From simple Virtue s unseductive way ; 
 
 And few, of all, at once could make pretence 
 
 To royal robes and rustic innocence ! 
 
 He builds the house where Christian people pray, 
 And rears a bagnio just across the way ; 
 Pays to the priest his stinted annual fee ; 
 Rewards the lawyer for his venal plea ; 
 Sends an apostle to the heathen s aid ; 
 And cheats the Choctaws, for the good of trade ; 
 Lifts by her heels an Ellsler to renown, 
 Or, bribing " Jenny," brings an angel down ! 
 He builds the Theatres, and gambling Halls, 
 
THE MONEY-KING. 19 
 
 Lloyds and Almacks, St. Peter s and St. Paul s ; 
 Sin s gay retreats, and Fashion s gilded rooms, 
 Hotels and Factories, Palaces and Tombs ; 
 Bids Commerce spread her wings to every gale ; 
 Bends to the breeze the pirate s bloody sail ; 
 Helps Science seek new worlds among the stars ; 
 Profanes our own with mercenary wars ; 
 The friend of wrong, the equal friend of right, 
 Oft may we bless, and oft deplore his might, 
 As buoyant Hope, or darkening fears prevail, 
 And good or evil turns the moral scale. 
 
 All fitting honor I would fain accord, 
 Whene er he builds a temple to the Lord ; 
 But much I grieve he often spends his pelf, 
 As it were raised in honor of himself; 
 Or, what were worse, and more profanely odd, 
 A place to worship some Egyptian God ! 
 I wish his favorite architects were graced 
 With sounder judgment, and a Christian taste. 
 
 Immortal Wren ! what fierce, convulsive shocks 
 Would jar thy bones within their leaden box, 
 Could st thou but look across the briny spray, 
 
20 THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 And see some churches of the present day ! 
 The lofty dome of consecrated bricks, 
 Where all the " orders " in disorder mix, 
 To form a temple whose incongruous frame 
 Confounds design and puts the Arts to shame ! 
 Where " styles " discordant on the vision jar, 
 Where Greek and Roman are again at war, 
 And, as of old, the* unrelenting Goth 
 Comes down at last and owerwhelms them both ! 
 
 Once on a time I heard a parson say, 
 
 (Talking of churches in a sprightly way,) 
 
 That there was more Religion in the walls 
 
 Of towering " Trinity," or grand " St. Paul s," 
 
 Than one could find, upon the strictest search, 
 
 In half the saints within the Christian Church ! 
 
 A layman sitting at the parson s side, 
 
 To this new dogma thus at once replied : 
 
 " If, as you say, Religion has her home 
 
 In the mere walls that form the sacred dome, 
 
 It seems to me the very plainest case, 
 
 To climb the steeple were a growth in grace; 
 
 And he to whom the pious strength were given 
 
THE MONEY-KING. 21 
 
 To reach the highest were the nearest Heaven ! " 
 I thought the answer just ; and yet tis clear 
 A solemn aspect, grand and yet severe, 
 Becomes the house of God. Tis hard to say 
 Who from the proper mark are most astray 
 They who erect for holy Christian rites, 
 A gay Pagoda with its tinsel lights, 
 Or they who offer to the God of Love, 
 A gorgeous Temple of the pagan Jove ! 
 
 Immortal Homer nd Tassoni sing 
 
 What vast results from trivial causes spring ; 
 
 How naughty Helen by her stolen joy 
 
 Brought woe and ruin to unhappy Troy ; 
 
 How, for a bucket, rash Bologna sold 
 
 More blood and tears than twenty such could 
 
 hold ! 
 
 Thy power, O Money, shows results as strange 
 As aught revealed in History s widest range ; 
 Thy smallest coin of shining silver shows 
 
 X 
 
 More potent magic than a conjurer knows ! 
 
 In olden times if classic poets say 
 The simple truth, as poets do to-day 
 
22 THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 When Charon s boat conveyed a spirit o er 
 The Lethean water to the Hadean shore, 
 The fare was just a penny not too great, 
 The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate. 
 Now, for a shilling, he will cross the stream, 
 (His paddles whirling to the force of steam !) 
 And bring, obedient to some wizard power, 
 Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour, 
 Than Brooklyn s famous ferry could convey, 
 Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day ! 
 Time was when men bereaved of vital breath, 
 Were calm and silent in the realms of Death ; 
 When mortals dead and decently inurned, 
 Were heard no more ; no traveller returned, 
 Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand, 
 To whisper secrets of the spirit-land 
 Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul 
 Among the tombs might wander on parole, 
 A well-bred ghost, at night s bewitching noon, 
 Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon, 
 Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white, 
 (The only rapping of an ancient sprite !) 
 Stalked round in silence till the break of day, 
 
THE MONET-KING. 23 
 
 Then from the Earth passed unperceived away ! 
 
 Now all is changed ; the musty maxim fails, 
 And dead men do repeat the queerest tales ! 
 Alas, that here, as in the books, we see 
 The travellers clash, the doctors disagree ; 
 Alas, that all, the further they explore, 
 For all their search are but confused the more ! 
 
 Ye great departed ! men of mighty mark 
 Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke, 
 Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall, 
 Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster all 
 Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball, 
 If in your new abodes ye cannot rest, 
 But must return, 0, grant us this request : 
 Come with a noble and celestial air, 
 To prove your title to the names ye bear ! 
 Give some clear token of your heavenly birth ! 
 Write as good English as ye wrote on Earth ! 
 Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse, 
 The spirit s progress is from bad to worse ; 
 And, what were once superfluous to advise, 
 Don t tell, I beg you, such egregious lies ! 
 Or if perchance your agents are to blame, 
 
24 THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 Don t let them trifle with your honest fame ; 
 Let chairs and tables rest, and " rap " instead, 
 Ay, "knock" your slippery "Mediums" on the head! 
 
 What direful woes the hapless man attend, 
 Who in the means sees life s supremest end ; 
 The wretched miser, money s sordid slave, 
 His only joy to gather and to save. 
 For this he wakes at morning s early light, 
 Toils through the day, and ponders in the night ; 
 For this, to swell his heap of tarnished gold, 
 Sweats in the sun, and shivers in the cold, 
 And suffers more from hunger every day 
 Than the starved beggar whom he spurns away. 
 Death comes erewhile to end his worldly strife ; 
 With all his saving he must lose his life ! 
 Perchance the Doctor might protract his breath, 
 And stay the dreadful messenger of death ; 
 But none is there to comfort or advise ; 
 Twould cost a dollar ! so the miser dies. 
 
 Sad is the sight when Money s power controls 
 In wedlock s chains the fate of human souls. 
 
THE MONEY-KING. 25 
 
 From mine to mint, curst is the coin that parts 
 In helpless grief two loving human hearts ; 
 Or joins in discord, jealousy and hate, 
 A sordid suitor to a loathing mate ! 
 
 I waive the case, the barren case of those 
 Who have no hearts to cherish or to lose ; 
 Whose wedded state is but a bargain made 
 In due accordance with the laws of trade ; 
 When the prim parson joins their willing hands, 
 To marry City lots to Western lands, 
 Or in connubial ecstasy to mix 
 Cash and " collateral ; " ten-per-cents with six, 
 And in soft dalliance securely locks 
 Impassioned dollars with enamored stocks, 
 Laugh if you will and who can well refrain ? 
 But waste no tears, nor pangs of pitying pain ; 
 Hearts such as these may play the queerest pranks, 
 But never break except with breaking banks ! 
 
 Yet, let me hint, a thousand maxims prove 
 Plutus may be the truest friend to Love. 
 u Love in a cottage " cosily may dwell, 
 But much prefers to have it furnished well ! 
 
26 THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 A parlor ample, and a kitchen snug, 
 
 A handsome carpet, an embroidered rug, 
 
 A well-stored pantry, and a tidy maid, 
 
 A blazing hearth, a cooling window-shade 
 
 Though merely mortal, money-purchased things, 
 
 Have wondrous power to clip Love s errant 
 
 wings ! 
 
 " Love in a cottage," isn t just the same, 
 When wind and water strive to quench his flame ; 
 Too oft it breeds the sharpest discontent, 
 That puzzling question, " how to pay the rent ; " 
 A smoky chimney may alone suffice 
 To dim the radiance of the fondest eyes ; 
 A northern blast, beyond the slightest doubt, 
 May fairly blow the torch of Hymen out; 
 And I have heard a worthy Matron hold, 
 (As one who knew the truth of what she told,) 
 Love once was drowned, though reckoned water-proof, 
 By the mere dripping of a leaky roof! 
 
 Full many a wise philosopher has tried 
 
 Mankind in fitting orders to divide ; 
 
 And by their forms, their fashions, and their face, 
 
THE MONEY-KING. 27 
 
 To group, assort, and classify the race. 
 
 One would distinguish people by their books ; 
 
 Another, quaintly, solely by their cooks ; 
 
 And one who graced the philosophic bench, 
 
 Found these three classes " women, men, and 
 
 French ! 
 
 The best remains, of all that I have known, 
 A broad distinction, brilliant, and my own 
 Of all mankind, I classify the lot : 
 Those who have Money, and those who have not ! 
 
 Think st thou the line a poet s fiction ? then 
 Go look abroad upon the ways of men ! 
 Go ask the Banker, with his golden seals ; 
 Go ask the borrower, cringing at his heels ; 
 Go ask the maid who, emulous of woe, 
 Discards the worthier for the wealthier beau ; 
 Go ask the Parson, when a higher prize 
 Points with the salary where his duty lies ; 
 Go ask the Lawyer, who, in legal smoke, 
 Stands, like a stoker, redolent of " Coke," 
 And swings his arms to emphasize a plea 
 Made doubly ardent by a golden fee ; 
 
28 THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 Go ask the Doctor, who has kindly sped 
 Old Crresus, dying on a damask bed, 
 While his poor neighbor wonderful to tell 
 Was left to Nature, suffered, and got well ! 
 Go ask the belle in high patrician pride, 
 Who spurns the maiden nurtured at her side, 
 Her youth s loved playmate at the village-school, 
 Ere changing fortune taught the rigid rule 
 Which marks the loftier from the lowlier lot 
 Those who have money from those who have not ! 
 
 Of all the ills that owe their baneful rise 
 To wealth o ergrown, the most despotic vice 
 Is Circean Luxury ; prolific dame 
 Of mental impotence, and moral shame, 
 And all the cankering evils that debase 
 The human form, and dwarf the human race. 
 
 See yon strange figure, and a moment scan 
 That slenderest sample of the genus, man ! 
 Mark, as he ambles, those precarious pegs 
 Which by their motion must be deemed his legs ! 
 He has a head, one may be sure of that 
 By just observing that he wears a hat; 
 
THE MONEY-KING. 29 
 
 That he has arms is logically plain 
 
 From his \vide coat-sleeves and his pendant cane ; 
 
 A tongue as well the inference is fair, 
 
 Since, on occasion, he can lisp and swear. 
 
 You ask his use ? that s not so very clear, 
 
 Unless to spend five thousand pounds a-year 
 
 In modish vices which his soul adores, 
 
 Drink, dress, and gaming, horses, hounds, and 
 
 scores 
 
 Qf other follies which I can t rehearse, 
 Dear to himself and dearer to his purse. 
 No product he of Fortune s fickle dice, 
 The due result of Luxury and Vice, 
 Three generations have sufficed to bring 
 That narrow-chested, pale, enervate thing 
 Down from a man for marvel as you will, 
 His huge great-grandsire fought on Bunker-Hill ! 
 Bore, without gloves, a musket through the war ; 
 Came back adorned with many a noble scar ; 
 Labored and prospered at a thriving rate, 
 And, dying, left his heir a snug estate, 
 Which grew apace upon his busy hands, 
 Stocks, ships, and factories, tenements and lands, 
 
30 THE MONEY-KING. 
 
 All here at last the money and the race 
 The latter ending in that foolish face, 
 The former wandering, far beyond his aim, 
 Back to the rough plebeians whence it came ! 
 
 Enough of censure ; let my humble lays 
 Employ one moment in congenial praise. 
 Let other pens with pious ardor paint 
 The selfish virtues of the cloistered saint ; 
 In lettered marble let the stranger read 
 Of him who, dying, did a worthy deed, 
 And left to charity the cherished store 
 Which, to his sorrow, he could hoard no more. 
 I venerate the nobler man who gives 
 His generous dollars while the donor lives ; 
 Gives with a heart as liberal as the palms 
 That to the needy spread his honored alms ; 
 Gives with a head whose yet unclouded light 
 To worthiest objects points the giver s sight ; 
 Gives with a hand still potent to enforce 
 His well-aimed bounty, and direct its course ; 
 Such is the giver who must stand confest 
 In giving glorious, and supremely blest ! 
 
THE MONEY-KING. 31 
 
 One such as this the captious world could find 
 In noble Perkins, angel of the blind; 
 One such as this in princely Lawrence shone, 
 Ere heavenly kindred claimed him for their own ! 
 
 To me the boon may gracious Heaven assign, 
 No cringing suppliant at Mammon s shrine, 
 Nor slave of Poverty, with joy to share 
 The happy mean expressed in Agur s prayer : 
 & house (my own) to keep me safe and warm, 
 A shade in sunshine, and a shield in storm ; 
 A generous board, and fitting raiment, clear 
 Of debts and duns throughout the circling year ; 
 Silver and gold, in moderate store, that I 
 May purchase joys that only these can buy ; 
 Some gems of art, a cultured mind to please, 
 Books, pictures, statues, literary ease. 
 That " Time is Money " prudent Franklin shows 
 In rhyming couplets, and sententious prose. 
 O, had he taught the world, in prose arid rhyme. 
 The higher truth that Money may be Time ! 
 And showed the people, in his pleasant ways, 
 The art of coining dollars into days ! 
 
32 THE MOXEY-KIXG. 
 
 Days for improvement, days for social life, 
 
 Days for your God, your children, and your wife ; 
 
 Some days for pleasure, and an hour to spend 
 
 In genial converse with an honest friend. 
 
 Such days be mine ! and grant me, Heaven, but 
 
 this, 
 
 "With blooming health, man s highest earthly bliss, 
 And I will read, without a sigh or frown, 
 The startling news that stocks are going down ; 
 Hear without envy that a stranger hoards 
 Or spends more treasure than a mint affords ; 
 See my next neighbor pluck a golden plum, 
 Calm and content within my cottage-home ; 
 Take for myself what honest thrift may bring, 
 And for his kindness, bless the Money-King! 
 
I M GROWING OLD. 
 
 MY days pass pleasantly away ; 
 
 My nights are blest with sweetest sleep 
 I feel no symptoms of decay ; 
 
 I have no cause to mourn nor weep ; 
 My foes are impotent and shy ; 
 
 My friends are neither false nor cold, 
 And yet, of late, I often sigh 
 
 I m growing old ! 
 
 My growing talk of olden times, 
 
 My growing thirst for early news, 
 My growing apathy to rhymes, 
 
 My growing love of easy shoes, 
 My growing hate of crowds and noise, 
 
 My growing fear of taking cold, 
 All whisper in the plainest voice, 
 
 I m growing old ! 
 3 
 
34 I M GROWING OLD. 
 
 I m growing fonder of my staff; 
 
 I m growing dimmer in the eyes; 
 I m growing fainter in my laugh ; 
 
 I m growing deeper in my sighs ; 
 I m growing careless of my dress ; 
 
 I m growing frugal of my gold ; 
 I m growing wise ; I m growing yes - 
 I m growing old ! 
 
 I see it in my changing taste ; 
 
 I see it in my changing hair ; 
 I see it in my growing waist ; 
 
 I see it in my growing heir ; 
 A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 
 
 As plain as truth was ever told, 
 That even in my vaunted youth, 
 
 I m growing old ! 
 
 Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
 The tale in my reluctant ears, 
 
 And every boon the Hours bequeathe 
 But makes me debtor to the Years ! 
 
I M GROWING OLD. 35 
 
 E en Flattery s honeyed words declare 
 The secret she would fain withhold, 
 And tells me in " How young you are ! " 
 I m growing old ! 
 
 Thanks for the years ! whose rapid flight 
 My sombre muse too sadly sings ; 
 
 Thanks for the gleams of golden light 
 That tint the darkness of their wings ; 
 
 The light that beams from out the sky, 
 Those Heavenly mansions to unfold 
 
 Where all are blest, and none may sigh, 
 * I m growing old ! " 
 
SPES EST VAXES. 
 
 THERE is a saying of the ancient sages : 
 
 No noble human thought, 
 However buried in the dust of ages, 
 
 Can ever come to nought. 
 
 With kindred faith, that knows no base dejection, 
 
 Beyond the sages scope 
 I see, afar, the final resurrection 
 
 Of every glorious hope. 
 
 I see, as parcel of a new creation, 
 
 The beatific hour 
 When every bud of lofty aspiration 
 
 Shall blossom into flower. 
 
 We are not mocked ; it was not in derision 
 God made our spirits free ; 
 
SPES EST VATES. 87 
 
 The poet s dreams are but the dim prevision 
 Of blessings that shall be, 
 
 When they who lovingly have hoped and trusted, 
 
 Despite some transient fears, 
 Shall see Life s jarring elements adjusted, 
 
 And rounded into spheres ! 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 i. 
 A YOUTH would marry a maiden, 
 
 For fair and fond was she ; 
 But she was rich, and he was poor, 
 And so it might not be. 
 
 A lady never could wear, 
 
 Her mother held it firm, 
 A gown that came of an India plant. 
 
 Instead of an India worm ! 
 And so the cruel word was spoken ; 
 And so it was two hearts were broken. 
 
 n. 
 A youth would marry a maiden, 
 
 For fair and fond was she ; 
 But he was high and she was low, 
 
 And so it might not be. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 39 
 
 A man ivho had worn a spur, 
 
 In ancient battle won, 
 Had sent it down with great renown, 
 
 To goad his future son ! 
 And so the cruel word was spoken ; 
 And so it was two hearts were broken. 
 
 in. 
 
 *A youth would marry a maiden, 
 
 For fair and fond was she ; 
 But their sires disputed about the Mas?, 
 And so it might not be. 
 
 A couple of ivicked Kings, 
 
 Three hundred years agone, 
 Had played at a royal game of chess, 
 
 And the church had been a pawn ! 
 And so the cruel word was spoken ; 
 And so it was two hearts were broken. 
 
THE HEAD AND THE HEART. 
 
 THE head is stately, calm and wise, 
 
 And bears a princely part ; 
 And down below in secret lies 
 
 The warm, impulsive heart. 
 
 The lordly head that sits above, 
 
 The heart that beats below, 
 Their several office plainly prove, 
 
 Their true relation show. 
 
 The head erect, serene and cool, 
 
 Endowed with Reason s art, 
 Was set aloft to guide and rule 
 
 The throbbing, wayward heart. 
 
 And from the head, as from the higher, 
 Comes every glorious thought ; 
 
THE HEAD AND THE HEART. 41 
 
 And in the heart s transforming fire 
 All noble deeds are wrought. 
 
 Yet each is best when both unite 
 
 To make the man complete ; 
 What were the heat without the light ? 
 
 The light, without the heat? 
 
MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 
 
 THERE S a castle in Spain, very charming to see, 
 Though built without money or toil ; 
 
 Of this handsome estate I am owner in fee, 
 And paramount lord of the soil; 
 
 And oft as I may I m accustomed to go 
 
 And live, like a king, in my Spanish Chateau ! 
 
 There s a dame most bewitchingly rounded and 
 
 ripe, 
 
 Whose wishes are never absurd ; 
 Who doesn t object to my smoking a pipe, 
 
 Nor insist on the ultimate word ; 
 In short, she s the pink of perfection, you know ; 
 And she lives, like a queen, in my Spanish Cha 
 teau ! 
 
 I ve a family too; the delightfullest girls, 
 And a bevy of beautiful boys ; 
 
MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 43 
 
 All quite the reverse of those juvenile churls 
 
 Whose pleasure is mischief and noise ; 
 No modern Cornelia might venture to show 
 Such jewels as those in my Spanish Chateau ! 
 
 I have servants who seek their contentment in mine, 
 And always mind what they are at ; 
 
 Who never embezzle the sugar and wine, 
 And slander the innocent cat ; 
 
 Neither saucy, nor careless, nor stupidly slow, 
 
 Are the servants who wait in my Spanish Cha 
 teau ! 
 
 I have pleasant companions ; most affable folk ; 
 
 And each with the heart of a brother ; 
 Keen wits who enjoy an antagonist s joke ; 
 
 And beauties who re fond of each other ; 
 Such people, indeed, as you never may know, 
 Unless you should come to my Spanish Chateau ! 
 
 I have friends, whose commission for wearing the 
 
 name, 
 In kindness unfailing, is shown ; 
 
44 MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 
 
 Who pay to another the duty they claim, 
 
 And deem his successes their own ; 
 Who joy in his gladness, and weep at his woe; 
 You 11 find them (where else ?) in my Spanish 
 Chateau ! 
 
 " si sic semper ! " I oftentimes say, 
 (Though tis idle, I know, to complain,) 
 
 To think that again I must force me away 
 From rny beautiful castle in Spain ! 
 
 Ah ! would that my stars had determined it so 
 
 I might live the year round in my Spanish Cha 
 teau ! 
 
A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT. 
 
 Tis twenty years, and something more, 
 
 Since, all atliirst for useful knowledge, 
 I took some draughts of classic lore, 
 
 Drtiwn, very mild, at rd College ; 
 
 Yet I remember all that one 
 
 Could wish to hold in recollection ; 
 The boys, the joys, the noise, the fun ; 
 
 But not a single Conic Section. 
 
 I recollect those harsh affairs, 
 
 The morning bells that gave us panics, 
 I recollect the formal prayers, 
 
 That seemed like lessons in Mechanics ; 
 I recollect the drowsy way 
 
 In which the students listened to them, 
 As clearly, in my wig, to-day, 
 
 As when, a boy, I slumbered through them. 
 
46 A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT. 
 
 I recollect the tutors all 
 
 As freshly now, if I may say so, 
 As any chapter I recall 
 
 In Homer or Ovidius Naso. 
 I recollect, extremely well, 
 
 " Old Hugh," the mildest of fanatics ; 
 I well remember Matthew Bell, 
 
 But very faintly, Mathematics. 
 
 I recollect the prizes paid 
 
 For lessons fathomed to the bottom ; 
 (Alas, that pencil-marks should fade !) 
 
 I recollect the chaps who got em 
 The fc ght equestrians who soared 
 
 O er every passage reckoned stony ; 
 And took the chalks, but never scored 
 
 A single honor to the pony ! 
 
 Ah me ! what changes Time has wrought, 
 And how predictions have miscarried ! 
 
 A few have reached the goal they sought, 
 And some are dead, and some are married ; 
 
A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT. 47 
 
 And some in city journals war ; 
 
 And some as politicians bicker ; 
 And some are pleading at the bar ; 
 
 For jury-verdicts, or for liquor ! 
 
 And some on Trade and Commerce wait ; 
 
 And some in schools with dunces battle ; 
 And some the gospel propagate ; 
 
 Anti some the choicest breeds of cattle ; 
 And some are living at their ease ; 
 
 And some were wrecked in " the revulsion ; " 
 Some serve the State for handsome fees, 
 
 And one, I hear, upon compulsion ! 
 
 LAMONT, who, in his college days, 
 
 Thought e en a cross a moral scandal, 
 Has left his Puritanic ways, 
 
 And worships now with bell and candle ; 
 And MANN, who mourned the negro s fate, 
 
 And held the slave as most unlucky, 
 Now holds him, at the market rate, 
 
 On a plantation in Kentucky ! 
 
48 A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT. 
 
 TOM KNOX, who swore in such a tone 
 
 It fairly might be doubted whether 
 It really was himself alone, 
 
 Or Knox and Erebus together, 
 Has grown a very altered man, 
 
 And, changing oaths for mild entreaty, 
 Now recommends the Christian plan 
 
 To savages in Otaheite ! 
 
 Alas, for young ambition s vow, 
 
 How envious Fate may overthrow it ! 
 Poor HARVEY is in Congress now, 
 
 Who struggled long to be a poet; 
 SMITH carves (quite well) memorial stones, 
 
 Who tried in vain to make the law go ; 
 HALL deals in hides ; and " Pious Jones " 
 
 Is dealing faro in Chicago ! 
 
 And, sadder still, the brilliant HAYS, 
 Once honest, manly, and ambitious, 
 
 Has taken latterly to ways, 
 
 Extremely profligate and vicious ; 
 
A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT. 49 
 
 By slow degrees I can t tell how 
 He s reached at last the very groundsel, 
 
 And in New York he figures now, 
 A member of the Common Council ! 
 
"DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED? 
 
 MADAM, you are very pressing, 
 And I can t decline the task ; 
 
 With the slightest gift of guessing, 
 You would scarcely need to ask ! 
 
 Don t you see a hint of marriage 
 
 In his sober-sided face? 
 In his rather careless carriage, 
 
 And extremely rapid pace ? 
 
 If he s not committed treason, 
 Or some wicked action done, 
 
 Can you see the faintest reason 
 Why a bachelor should run ? 
 
 Why should he be in a flurry? 
 But a loving wife to greet, 
 
" DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED ? " 51 
 
 Is a circumstance to hurry 
 The most dignified of feet ! 
 
 When afar the man has spied her, 
 
 If the grateful, happy elf 
 Does not haste to be beside her, 
 
 He must be beside himself! 
 I 
 
 It is but a trifle, may be 
 But observe . his practised tone, 
 
 When he calms your stormy baby, 
 Just as if it were his own ! 
 
 Do you think a certain meekness 
 You have mentioned in his looks, 
 
 Is a chronic optic weakness 
 
 That has come of reading books ? 
 
 Did you ever see his vision 
 
 Peering underneath a hood> 
 Save enough for recognition, 
 
 As a civil person should ! 
 
52 " DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED ? " 
 
 Could a Capuchin be colder 
 When he glances, as he must, 
 
 At a finely-rounded shoulder, 
 Or a proudly-swelling bust? 
 
 Madam ! think of every feature, 
 Then deny it, if you can, 
 
 He s a fond, connubial creature, 
 And a very married man ! 
 
EARLY RISING. 
 
 " GOD bless the man who first invented sleep 
 So Sancho Panza said, and so say I : 
 
 And* bless him, also, that he didn t keep 
 His great discovery to himself; nor try 
 
 To make it, as the lucky fellow might, 
 
 A close monopoly by patent right ! 
 
 Yes bless the man who first invented 
 (I really can t avoid the iteration ;) 
 
 But blast the man with curses loud and deep, 
 Whate er the rascal s name, or age, or station, 
 
 Who first invented, and went round advising, 
 
 That artificial cut-off Early Rising! 
 
 " Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," 
 Observes some solemn sentimental owl ; 
 
 Maxims like these are very cheaply said ; 
 But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, 
 
54 EARLY KISING. 
 
 Pray, just inquire about his rise and fall, 
 And whether larks have any beds at all ! 
 
 "The time for honest folks to be a bed" 
 Is in the morning, if I reason right ; 
 
 And he who cannot keep his precious head 
 Upon his pillow till it s fairly light, 
 
 And so enjoy his forty morning winks, 
 
 Is up to knavery ; or else he drinks ! 
 
 Thomson, who sung about the " Seasons," said 
 It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; 
 
 But then he said it lying in his bed, 
 At ten o clock A. M., the very reason 
 
 He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, 
 
 His preaching wasn t sanctioned by his practice. 
 
 Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, 
 Awake to duty, and awake to truth, 
 
 But when, alas ! a nice review we take 
 
 Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, 
 
 The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep 
 
 Are those we passed in childhood or asleep ! 
 
EARLY RISIXG. 55 
 
 Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile 
 For the soft visions of the gentle night ; 
 
 And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, 
 To live as only in the angels sight, 
 
 In sleep s sweet realm so cosily shut in, 
 
 Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin ! 
 I 
 
 So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. 
 
 I like the lad who, when his father thought 
 To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase 
 
 Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, 
 Cried, " Served him right ! it s not at all sur 
 prising ; 
 The worm was punished, sir, for early rising ! " 
 
IDEAL AND EEAL. 
 
 IDEAL. 
 
 SOME years ago, when I was young, 
 
 And Mrs. Jones was Miss Delancy ; 
 When wedlock s canopy was hung 
 
 With curtains from the loom of fancy ; 
 I used to paint my future life 
 
 With most poetical precision, 
 My special wonder of a wife ; 
 
 My happy days ; my nights Elysian. 
 
 I saw a lady, rather small, 
 
 (A JUNO was my strict abhorrence,) 
 With flaxen hair, contrived to fall 
 
 In careless ringlets, a la Lawrence ; 
 A blonde complexion ; eyes that drew 
 
 From autumn clouds their azure brightness ; 
 The foot of Venus ; arms whose hue 
 
 Was perfect in its milky whiteness ! 
 
IDEAL AND REAL. 57 
 
 I saw a party, quite select, 
 
 There might have been a baker s dozen ; 
 A parson, of the ruling sect ; 
 
 A bridemaid, and a city cousin ; 
 A formal speech to me and mine, 
 
 (Its meaning I could scarce discover;) 
 A taste of cake ; a sip of wine ; 
 
 Some kissing and the scene was over ! 
 
 I saw a baby one no more ; 
 
 A cherub pictured, rather faintly, 
 Beside a pallid dame who wore 
 
 A countenance extremely saintly. 
 I saw but nothing could I hear, 
 
 Except the softest prattle, may be, 
 The merest breath upon the ear 
 
 So quiet was that blessed baby ! 
 
 REAL. 
 I see a woman, rather tall, 
 
 And yet, I own, a comely lady ; 
 Complexion such as I must call 
 
 (To be exact) a little shady ; 
 
58 IDEAL AND REAL. 
 
 A hand not handsome, yet confest 
 A generous one for love or pitj ; 
 
 A nimble foot, and neatly dressed 
 In No. 5 extremely pretty ! 
 
 I see a group of boys and girls 
 
 Assembled round the knee paternal; 
 With ruddy cheeks and tangled curls, 
 
 And manners not at all supernal. 
 And one has reached a manly size ; 
 
 And one aspires to woman s stature; 
 And one is quite a recent prize, 
 
 And all abound in human nature ! 
 
 The boys are hard to keep in trim ; 
 
 The girls are often rather trying ; 
 And baby like the cherubim 
 
 Seems very fond of steady crying ! 
 And yet the precious little one, 
 
 His mother s dear, despotic master, 
 Is worth a thousand babies done 
 
 In Parian or in alabaster ! 
 
IDEAL AND REAL. 59 
 
 And oft that stately dame and I, 
 
 "Wlien laughing o er our early dreaming, 
 And marking, as the years go by, 
 
 How idle was our youthful scheming, 
 Confess the wiser Power that knew 
 
 How Duty every joy enhances, 
 And gave us blessings rich and true, 
 
 And better far than all our fancies ! 
 
 - .. -: 
 
HOW THE MONEY GOES. 
 
 How goes the Money ? Well, 
 
 I m sure it isn t hard to tell ; 
 
 It goes for rent, and water-rates, 
 
 For bread and butter, coal and grates, 
 
 Hats, caps, and carpets, hoops and hose, 
 
 And that s the way the Money goes ! 
 
 How goes the Money ? Nay, 
 Don t everybody know the way ? 
 It goes for bonnets, coats, and capes, 
 Silks, satins, muslins, velvets, crapes, 
 Shawls, ribbons, furs, and furbelows, 
 And that s the way the Money goes ! 
 
 How goes the Money ? Sure, 
 
 I wish the ways were something fewer ; 
 
 It goes for wages, taxes, debts ; 
 
 It goes for presents, goes for bets, 
 
HOW THE MONEY GOES. 61 
 
 For paint, pommade, and eau de rose, 
 And that s the way the Money goes ! 
 
 How goes the Money? Now, 
 
 I ve scarce begun to mention how ; 
 
 It goes for laces, feathers, rings, 
 
 Toys, dolls and other baby-things, 
 
 Whips, whistles, candies, bells, and bows, 
 
 And that s the way the Money goes ! 
 
 How goes the Money ? Come, 
 
 I know it doesn t go for rum ; 
 
 It goes for schools and Sabbath chimes, 
 
 It goes for charity sometimes ; 
 
 For missions, and such things as those, 
 
 And that s the way the Money goes ! 
 
 How goes the Money ? There ! 
 I m out of patience, I declare ; 
 It goes for plays, and diamond-pins, 
 For public alms, and private sins, 
 For hollow shams, and silly shows, 
 And that s the way the Money goes ! 
 
TALE OF A DOG. 
 
 IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 " CURSE on all curs ! " I heard a cynic cry ; 
 
 A wider malediction than he thought, 
 For what s a cynic ? Had he cast his eye 
 
 Within his dictionary, he had caught 
 This much of learning, the untutored elf, 
 That he, unwittingly, had cursed himself! 
 
 ii. 
 " Beware of dogs," the great Apostle writes ; 
 
 A rather brief and sharp philippic sent 
 To the Philippians. The paragraph invites 
 
 Some little question as to its intent, 
 Among the best expositors ; but then 
 I find they all agree that " dogs " meant men ! 
 
TALE OF A DOG. 63 
 
 III. 
 Beware of men ! a moralist might say, 
 
 And women too ; t were but a prudent hint, 
 Well worth observing in a general way, 
 
 But having surely no conclusion in t, 
 (As saucy satirists are wont to rail,) 
 All men are faithless, and all women frail. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And so of dogs t were wrong to dogmatize 
 
 Without discrimination or degree ; 
 For one may see, with half a pair of eyes, 
 
 That they have characters as well as we : 
 I hate the rascal who can walk the street 
 Caning all canines he may chance to meet. 
 
 v. 
 
 I had a dog that was not all a dog, 
 
 For in his nature there was something human ; 
 
 Wisely he looked as any pedagogue ; 
 
 Loved funerals and weddings, like a woman; 
 
 With this (still human) weakness, I confess, 
 
 Of always judging people by their dress. 
 
64 TALE OF A DOG. 
 
 VI. 
 He hated beggars, it was very clear, 
 
 And oft was seen to drive them from the door ; 
 But that was education ; for a year, 
 
 Ere yet his puppyhood was t fairly o er, 
 He lived with a Philanthropist, and caught 
 His practices ; the precepts he forgot ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 "Which was a pity ; yet the dog, I grant, 
 Led, on the whole, a very worthy life. 
 
 To teach you industry, " Go to the ant, " 
 (I mean the insect, not your uncle s wife ;) 
 
 But though the counsel sounds a little rude 
 
 Go to the dogs, for love and gratitude. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 VIII. 
 
 " Throw physic to the dogs," the poet cries ; 
 
 A downright insult to the canine race ; 
 There s not a puppy but is far too wise 
 
 To put a pill or powder in his face. 
 
TALE OF A DOG. 65 
 
 Perhaps the poet merely meant to say, 
 
 That physic, thrown to dogs, is thrown away 
 
 IX. 
 
 Which (as the parson said about the dice) 
 
 Is the best throw that any man can choose ; 
 
 
 
 Take, if you re ailing, medical advice, 
 
 Minus the medicine which, of course, refuse. 
 Drugging, no doubt, occasioned Homoeopathy, 
 
 And all the dripping horrors of Hydropathy. 
 
 i 
 
 x. 
 
 At all events, tis fitting to remark, 
 
 Dogs spurn at drugs ; their daily bark and whip,! 1 
 Are not at all the musty wine and bark 
 
 The doctors give to patients in decline ; 
 And yet a dog who felt a fracture s smart 
 Once thanked a kind chirurgeon for his art. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I ve heard a story, and believe it true, 
 
 About a dog that chanced to break his leg ; 
 His master set it, and the member grew 
 5 
 
66 TALE OF A DOG. 
 
 Once more a sound and serviceable peg ; 
 And how d ye think the happy dog exprest 
 The grateful feelings of his glowing breast ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 Twas not in words ; the customary pay 
 Of human debtors for a friendly act ; 
 
 For dogs their thoughts can neither sing nor say, 
 E en in " dog-latin," which (a curious fact) 
 
 Is spoken only, as a classic grace, 
 
 By grave Professors of the human race ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 No, t was in deed ; the very briefest tail 
 Declared his deep emotions at his cure; 
 
 Short, but significant; one could not fail, 
 From the mere wagging of his cynosure 
 
 (" Surgens e puppi "), and his ears agog, 
 
 To see the fellow was a grateful dog ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 One day still mindful of his late disaster 
 He wandered off the village to explore ; 
 
TALE OF A DOG. 67 
 
 And brought another dog unto his master, 
 Lame of a leg, as he had been before ; 
 As who should say "you see! the dog is lame, 
 You doctored me, pray, doctor him the same ! " 
 
 XV. 
 
 So runs the story, and you have it cheap 
 Dog-cheap, as doubtless such a tale should be; 
 
 The moral, surely, isn t hard to reap : 
 Be prompt to listen unto mercy s plea ; 
 
 The good you get, diffuse ; it will not hurt you 
 
 E en from a dog to learn a Christian virtue ! 
 
LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 BENEATH the hill you may see the mill, 
 Of wasting wood and crumbling stone ; 
 
 The wheel is dripping and clattering still, 
 But JERRY, the miller, is dead and gone. 
 
 Year after year, early and late, 
 
 Alike in summer and winter weather, 
 
 He pecked the stones and calked the gate, 
 And mill and miller grew old together. 
 
 " Little Jerry ! " twas all the same, 
 They loved him well who called him so ; 
 
 And whether he d ever another name, 
 Nobody ever seemed to know. 
 
 Twas " Little Jerry, come grind my rye ; " 
 And " Little Jerry, come grind my wheat ; " 
 
69 
 
 And " Little Jerry " was still the cry, 
 From matron bold and maiden sweet. 
 
 Twas " Little Jerry " on every tongue, 
 And so the simple truth was told ; 
 
 For Jerry was little when he was young, 
 And Jerry was little when he was old. 
 
 But what in size he chanced to lack, 
 That Jerry made up in being strong ; 
 
 I ve seen a sack upon his back 
 
 As thick as the miller, and quite as long. 
 
 Always busy, and always merry, 
 
 Always doing his very best, 
 A notable wag was Little Jerry, 
 
 Who uttered well his standing jest. 
 
 How Jerry lived is known to fame, 
 
 But how he died there s none may know ; 
 
 One autumn day the rumor came 
 " The brook and Jerry are very low." 
 
70 LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER. 
 
 And then twas whispered, mournfully, 
 The leech had come, and he was dead ; 
 
 And all the neighbors flocked to see ; 
 " Poor Little Jerry ! " was all they said. 
 
 They laid him in his earthy bed 
 His miller s coat his only shroud 
 
 " Dust to dust,! the parson said, 
 And all the people wept aloud. 
 
 For he had shunned the deadly sin, 
 
 And not a grain of over-toll 
 Had ever dropped into his bin, 
 
 To weigh upon his parting soul. 
 
 Beneath the hill there stands the mill, 
 Of wasting wood and crumbling stone ; 
 
 The wheel is dripping and clattering still, 
 But JERRY, the miller, is dead and gone. 
 
HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 COME, listen all unto my song; 
 
 It is no silly fable ; 
 Tis all about the mighty cord 
 
 They call the Atlantic Cable. 
 
 Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he, 
 
 I have a pretty notion 
 That I can run a telegraph 
 
 Across the Atlantic Ocean. 
 
 Then all the people laughed, and said, 
 They d like to see him do it ; 
 
 He might get half-seas-over, but 
 He never could go through it ; 
 
72 HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 
 
 To carry out his foolish plan 
 
 He never would be able ; 
 He might as well go hang himself 
 
 With his Atlantic Cable! 
 
 But Cyrus was a valiant man, 
 
 A fellow of decision ; 
 And heeded not their mocking words, 
 
 Their laughter and derision. 
 
 Twice did his bravest efforts fail, 
 And yet his mind was stable ; 
 
 He wa n t the man to break his heart 
 Because he broke his cable. 
 
 " Once more, my gallant boys ! " he cried ; 
 
 " Three times ! you know the. fable, 
 (I 11 make it thirty" muttered he, 
 
 "But I will lay the cable!") 
 
 Once more they tried, hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 What means this great commotion ? 
 
HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 73 
 
 The Lord be praised ! the cable s laid 
 Across the Atlantic Ocean ! 
 
 Loud ring the bells for, flashing through 
 
 Six hundred leagues of water, 
 Old Mother England s benison 
 
 Salutes her eldest daughter ! 
 
 O er all the land the tidings speed, 
 
 And soon, in every nation, 
 They 11 hear about the cable with 
 
 Profoundest admiration ! 
 
 Now long live James, and long live Vic, 
 
 And long live gallant Cyrus ; 
 And may his courage, faith, and zeal 
 
 With emulation fire us; 
 
 And may we honor evermore 
 
 The manly, bold, and stable ; 
 And tell our sons, to make them brave, 
 
 How Cyrus laid the cable ! 
 
THE JOLLY MARINER. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 IT was a jolly mariner 
 
 As ever hove a log; 
 He wore his trousers wide and free, 
 
 And always ate his prog, 
 And blessed his eyes, in sailor-wise, 
 
 And never shirked his grog. 
 
 Up spoke this jolly mariner, 
 
 Whilst walking up and down : 
 
 " The briny sea has pickled me, 
 And done me very brown ; 
 
 But here I goes, in these here clo es, 
 A-cruising in the town ! " 
 
 The first of all the curious things 
 That chanced his eye to meet, 
 
THE JOLLY MAEINER. 75 
 
 As this undaunted mariner 
 
 Went sailing up the street, 
 Was, tripping with a little cane, 
 
 A dandy all complete ! 
 
 He stopped, that jolly mariner, 
 
 And eyed the stranger well : 
 "What that may be," he said, says he, 
 
 " Is more than I can tell ; 
 But ne er before, on sea or shore, 
 
 Was such a heavy swell ! " 
 
 He met a lady in her hoops, 
 And thus she heard him hail : 
 
 "Now blow me tight! but there s a sight 
 To manage in a gale ! 
 
 I never saw so small a craft 
 With such a spread o sail ! 
 
 " Observe the craft before and aft, 
 
 She d make a pretty prize ! " 
 And then in that improper way 
 
 He spoke about his eyes, 
 
76 THE JOLLY MARINER. 
 
 That mariners are wont to use 
 In anger or surprise. 
 
 He saw a plumber on a roof, 
 Who made a mighty din : 
 
 " Shipmate, ahoy ! " the rover cried, 
 " It makes a sailor grin 
 
 To see you copper-bottoming 
 Your upper-decks with tin ! " 
 
 He met a yellow-bearded man, 
 i 
 
 And asked about the way ; 
 But not a word could he make out 
 
 Of what the chap would say, 
 Unless he meant to call him names, 
 
 By screaming, " Nix furstay ! " 
 
 Up spoke this jolly mariner, 
 And to the man said he, 
 
 " I have n t sailed these thirty years 
 Upon the stormy sea, 
 
 To bear the shame of such a name 
 As I have heard from thee ! 
 
THE JOLLY MARINER. 77 
 
 So take thou that ! " and laid him flat ; 
 
 But soon the man arose, 
 And beat the jolly mariner 
 
 Across his jolly nose, 
 Till he was fain, from very pain, 
 
 To yield him to the blows. 
 
 Twas then this jolly mariner, 
 
 A wretched jolly tar, 
 Wished he was in a jolly-boat 
 
 Upon the sea afar, 
 Or riding fast, before the blast, 
 
 Upon a single spar ! 
 
 Twas then this jolly mariner 
 
 Returned unto his ship, 
 And told unto the wondering crew 
 
 The story of his trip, 
 With many oaths and curses, too, 
 
 Upon his wicked lip ! 
 
 As hoping so this mariner 
 In fearful words harangued 
 
78 THE JOLLY MARINER. 
 
 His timbers might be shivered, and 
 His le ward scuppers danged, 
 
 (A double curse, and vastly worse 
 Than being shot or hanged !) 
 
 If ever he and here again 
 A dreadful oath he swore 
 
 If ever he, except at sea, 
 Spoke any stranger more, 
 
 Or like a son of something went 
 A-cruising on the shore ! 
 
YE TAILYOR-MAN. 
 
 A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD. 
 
 RIGHT jollie is ye tally or-man, 
 
 As annie man may be ; 
 And all ye daye upon ye benche 
 
 He worketh merrilie. 
 
 And oft ye while in pleasante wise 
 He coileth up his lymbes, 
 
 He singeth songs ye like whereof 
 Are not in Watts his hymns. 
 
 And yet he toileth all ye while 
 His merrie catches rolle; 
 
 As true unto ye needle as 
 Ye needle to ye pole. 
 
80 YE TAILYOR-MAN. 
 
 What cares ye valiant tailyor-man 
 For all ye cowarde feares ? 
 
 Against ye scissors of ye Fates 
 He pointes his mightie sheares. 
 
 He heedeth not ye anciente jests 
 That witlesse sinners use ; 
 
 What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man 
 Ye hissinge of a goose? 
 
 He pulleth at ye busie threade, 
 To feede his lovinge wife 
 
 And eke his childe ; for unto them 
 It is ye threade of life. 
 
 He cutteth well ye riche man s coate, 
 And with unseemlie pride 
 
 He sees ye little waistcoate in 
 Ye cabbage bye his side. 
 
 Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife, 
 To labor nothinge loth, 
 
YE TAILYOR-MAN. 81 
 
 Sits bye with readie hande to baste 
 Ye urchin and ye cloth. 
 
 Full happie is ye tailyor-man, 
 
 Yet is he often tried, 
 Lest he, from fullnesse of ye dimes, 
 
 Waxe wanton in his pride. 
 
 Full happie is ye tailyor-man, 
 
 And yet he hath a foe, 
 A cunninge enemie that none 
 
 So well as tailyors knowe. 
 
 It is ye slipperie customer 
 
 Who goes his wicked wayes, 
 And weares ye honest tailyor s coate, 
 
 But never, never paves ! 
 
 -fVVM^ 
 
 , 
 
 .Library. 
 
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 AN ECLOGUE. 
 CLOVERTOP. 
 
 I VE thought, my Cousin, it s extremely queer 
 That you, who love to spend your August here, 
 Don t bring, at once, your wife and children down, 
 And quit, for good, the noisy, dusty town. 
 
 SHILLINGSIDE. 
 
 Ah ! simple swain, this sort of life may do 
 For such a verdant Clovertop as you, 
 Content to vegetate in summer air, 
 And hibernate in winter like a bear ! 
 
 CLOVERTOP. 
 
 Here we have butter pure as virgin gold, 
 And milk from cows that can a tail unfold 
 With bovine pride; and new-laid eggs, whose praise 
 Is sung by pullets with their morning lays ; 
 
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 83 
 
 Trout from the brook ; good water from the well ; 
 And other blessings more than I can tell ! 
 
 SHILLINGSIDE. 
 
 There, simple rustic, we have nightly plays, 
 And operatic music charming ways 
 Of spending time and money lots of fun ; 
 The Central Park whene er they get it done ; 
 Barnum s Museum, full of things erratic, 
 Terrene, amphibious, airy, and aquatic ! 
 
 CL OVERTOP. 
 
 Here we have rosy, radiant, romping girls, 
 With lips of rubies, and with teeth of pearls ; 
 I dare not mention half their witching charms; 
 But, ah ! the roundness of their milky arms, 
 And, oh ! what polished shoulders they display, 
 Bending o er tubs upon a washing-day ! 
 
 SHILLINGSIDE. 
 
 There we have ladies most superbly made 
 (By fine artistes, who understand their trade), 
 Who dance the German, flirt a graceful fan, 
 
84 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 And speak such French as no Parisian can ; 
 Who sing much louder than your country thrushes, 
 And wear (thank Phalon !) far more brilliant 
 blushes ! 
 
 CLOVERTOP. 
 
 Here, boastful Shilling, we have flowery walks, 
 Where you may stroll, and hold delightful talks, 
 (No saucy placard frowning as you pass, 
 " Ten dollars fine for walking on the grass ! ") 
 Dim-lighted groves, where love s delicious words 
 Are breathed to music of melodious birds. 
 
 SHILLINGSIDE. 
 
 There, silly Clover, dashing belles we meet, 
 Sweeping with silken robes the dusty street ; 
 May gaze into their faces as they pass, 
 Beneath the rays of dimly-burning gas, 
 Or, standing at a crossing when it rains, 
 May see some pretty ankles for our pains. 
 
 CLOVERTOP. 
 
 Here you may angle for the speckled trout, 
 
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 85 
 
 Play him awhile, with gentle hand, about, 
 Then, like a sportsman, pull the fellow out! 
 
 SHILLINGSIDE. 
 
 There, too, is fishing quite as good, I ween, 
 Where careless, gaping gudgeons oft are seen, 
 Rich as yon pasture, and almost as green ! 
 
 CLOVERTOP. 
 
 Here you may &ee the meadow s grassy plain, 
 Ripe, luscious fruits, and shocks of golden grain ; 
 And view, luxuriant in a hundred fields, 
 The gorgeous wealth that bounteous Nature yields 1 
 
 SHILLINGSIDE. 
 
 There you may see Trade s wondrous strength and 
 
 pride, 
 
 Where merchant-navies throng on every side, 
 And view, collected in Columbia s mart, 
 Alike the wealth of Nature and of Art ! 
 
 CLOVERTOP. 
 
 Cease, clamorous cit ! I love these quiet nooks, 
 
86 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 Where one may sleep, or dawdle over books, 
 
 Or, if he wish of gentle love to dream, 
 
 May sit and muse by yonder babbling stream 
 
 SHILLINGSIDE. 
 
 Dry up your babbling stream ! my Clovertop 
 You re getting garrulous ; it s time to stop. 
 I love the city, and the city s smoke ; 
 The smell of gas ; the dust of coal and coke ; 
 The sound of bells ; the tramp of hurrying feet ; 
 The sight of pigs and Paphians in the street ; 
 The jostling crowd ; the never-ceasing noise 
 Of rattling coaches, and vociferous boys ; 
 The cry of " Fire ! " and the exciting scene 
 Of heroes running with their mad " mersheen ; " 
 Nay, now I think that I could even stand 
 The direful din of Barnum s brazen band, 
 So much I long to see the town again ! 
 Good-bye ! I m going by the evening train ! 
 Don t fail to call whene er you come to town, 
 We 11 do the city, boy, and do it brown ; 
 I ve really had a pleasant visit here, 
 And mean to come again another year. 
 
MY FAMILIAR. 
 Ecce iterum Qrispinus I 
 
 I. 
 
 AGAIN I hear that creaking step ! 
 
 He s rapping at the door ! 
 Too well I know the boding sound 
 
 That ushers in a bore. 
 I do not tremble when I meet 
 
 The stoutest of my foes, 
 But Heaven defend me from "he friend 
 
 Who comes but never goes ! 
 
 ii. 
 He drops into my easy chair, 
 
 And asks about the news ; 
 He peers into my manuscript, 
 
 And gives his candid views ; 
 
88 MY FAMILIAR. 
 
 He tells where he likes the line, 
 And where he s forced to grieve ; 
 
 He takes the strangest liberties, 
 But never takes his leave ! 
 
 in. 
 He reads my daily paper through, 
 
 Before I ve seen a word ; 
 He scans the lyric (that I wrote) 
 
 And thinks it quite absurd ; 
 He calmly smokes my last cigar, 
 
 And coolly asks for more ; 
 He opens everything he sees, 
 
 Except the entry door 
 
 IV. 
 
 He talks about his fragile health, 
 And tells me of the pains 
 
 He suffers from a score of ills 
 Of which he ne er complains ; 
 
 And how he struggled once with death 
 To keep the fiend at bay ; 
 
MY FAMILIAR. 89 
 
 On themes like those away he goes 
 But never goes away! 
 
 v. 
 
 He tells me of the carping words 
 
 Some shallow critic wrote ; 
 And every precious paragraph 
 
 Familiarly can quote ; 
 He thinks the writer did me wrong ; 
 
 He d like to run him through ! 
 He says a thousand pleasant things 
 
 But never says " Adieu ! " 
 
 YI. 
 Whene er he comes that dreadful man 
 
 .Disguise it as I may, 
 I know that, like an Autumn rain, 
 
 He 11 last throughout the day. 
 In vain I speak of urgent tasks ; 
 
 In vain I scowl and pout ; 
 A frown is no extinguisher 
 
 It does not put him out ! 
 
90 MY FAMILIAR. 
 
 VII. 
 I mean to take the knocker off, 
 
 Put crape upon the door, 
 Or hint to John that I am gone 
 
 To stay a month or more. 
 I do not tremble when I meet 
 
 The stoutest of my foes, 
 But Heaven defend me from the friend 
 
 Who never, never goes ! 
 
HOW THE LAWYERS GOT A PATRON SAINT. 
 
 A LEGEND OF BRETAGNE. 
 
 A LAWYER of Brittany, once on a time, 
 When business was flagging at home, 
 
 Was sent as a legate to Italy s clime, 
 To confer with the Father at Rome. 
 
 And what was the message the minister brought? 
 
 To the Pope he preferred a complaint 
 That each other profession a Patron had got, 
 
 While the Lawyers had never a Saint! 
 
 " Very true," said his Holiness, smiling to find 
 An attorney so civil and pleasant, 
 
 " But my very last Saint is already assigned, 
 And I can t make a new one at present. 
 
 To choose from the Bar it were fittest, I think; 
 Perhaps you ve a man in your eye" 
 
92 HOW THE LAWYERS GOT A PATRON SAINT. 
 
 And his Holiness here gave a mischievous wink 
 
 To a Cardinal sitting near by. 
 
 
 But the lawyer replied, in a lawyer-like way, 
 
 " I know what is modest, I hope ; 
 I didn t come hither, allow me to say, 
 
 To proffer advice to the Pope ! " 
 
 "Very well," said his Holiness, "then we will do 
 The best that may fairly be done ; 
 
 It don t seem exactly the thing, it is true, 
 That the Law should be Saint-less alone. 
 
 To treat your profession as well as I can, 
 And leave you no cause of complaint, 
 
 I propose, as the only quite feasible plan, 
 To give you a second-hand Saint. 
 
 To the neighboring church you will presently go, 
 
 And this is the plan I advise : 
 First, say a few aves a hundred or so 
 
 Then, carefully bandage your eyes; 
 
HOW THE LAWYERS GOT A PATRON SAINT. 93 
 
 Then (saying more aves) go groping around, 
 
 And, touching one object alone, 
 The Saint you are seeking will quickly be found, 
 
 For the first that you touch is your own." 
 
 The lawyer did as his Holiness said, 
 
 "Without an omission or flaw ; 
 Then, taking the bandages off from his head, 
 
 What do you think he saw? 
 
 There was St. Michael (figured in paint) 
 
 Subduing the Father of Evil ; 
 And the lawyer, exclaiming " Be thou our Saint ! " 
 
 Was touching the form of the DEVIL ! 
 
THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 
 
 A PERSIAN LEGEND. 
 I. 
 
 PRAY list unto a legend 
 
 The ancient poets tell ; 
 T is of a mighty monarch 
 
 In Persia once did dwell ; 
 A mighty queer old monarch 
 
 Who ruled his kingdom well. 
 
 ii. 
 "I must build another palace," 
 
 Observed this mighty King ; 
 " For this is getting shabby 
 
 Along the southern wing; 
 And, really, for a monarch, 
 
 It is n t quite the thing. 
 
THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 95 
 
 HI. 
 
 " So I will have a new one, 
 
 Although I greatly fear, 
 To build it just to suit me, 
 
 Will cost me rather dear; 
 And I d choose, God wot, another spot, 
 
 Much finer than this here." 
 
 IV. 
 
 So he travelled o er his kingdom 
 
 A proper site to find, 
 Where he might build a palace 
 
 Exactly to his mind, 
 Ah 1 with a pleasant prospect 
 
 Before it, and behind. 
 
 v. 
 
 Not long with this endeavor 
 
 The King had travelled round, 
 Ere, to his royal pleasure, 
 
 A charming spot he found ; 
 But an ancient widow s cabin 
 
 Was standing on the ground. 
 
96 THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Ah, here," exclaimed the monarch, 
 Is just the proper spot, 
 
 If this woman would allow me 
 To remove her little cot." 
 
 But the beldam answered plainly, 
 She had rather he would not ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Within this lonely cottage, 
 Great Monarch, I was born ; 
 
 And only from this cottage 
 By Death will I be torn; 
 
 So spare it, in your justice, 
 Or spoil it, in your scorn ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then all the courtiers mocked her, 
 With cruel words and jeers : 
 
 " T is plain her royal master 
 She neither loves nor fears ; 
 
 We would knock her ugly hovel 
 About her ugly ears ! 
 
THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 97 
 
 IX. 
 
 " When ever was a subject 
 
 Who might the King withstand ? 
 
 Or deem his spoken pleasure 
 As less than his command? 
 
 Of course, he 11 rout the beldam, 
 And confiscate her land ! " 
 
 x. 
 
 But, to their deep amazement, 
 
 His majesty replied : 
 " Good woman never heed them, 
 
 The King is on your side ; 
 Your cottage is your castle, 
 
 And here you shall abide. 
 
 XI. 
 
 To raze it in a moment, 
 
 The power is mine, I grant; 
 My absolute dominion 
 
 A hundred poets chant ; 
 For being Khan of Persia, 
 
 There s nothing that I can t ! " 
 7 
 
98 THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 
 
 XII. 
 ( T was in this pleasant fashion 
 
 The mighty monarch spoke ; 
 For Kings have merry fancies 
 
 Like other mortal folk ; 
 And none so high and mighty 
 
 But loves his little joke.) 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " But power is scarcely worthy 
 
 Of honor or applause, 
 That in its domination 
 
 Contemns the widow s cause, 
 Or perpetrates injustice 
 
 By trampling on the laws. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " That I have wronged the meanest 
 No honest tongue may say ; 
 
 So bide you in your cottage, 
 Good woman, while you may ; 
 
 What s yours by deed and purchase 
 No man may take away. 
 
THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 99 
 
 XV. 
 
 " And I will build beside it, 
 For though your cot may be 
 
 In such a lordly presence 
 No fitting thing to see, 
 
 If it honor not my castle, 
 It will surely honor me ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " For so my loyal people 
 
 Who gaze upon the sight, 
 Shall know that in oppression 
 
 I do not take delight ; 
 Nor hold a King s convenience 
 
 Before a subject s right ! " 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Now from his spoken purpose 
 
 The King departed not ; 
 He built the royal dwelling 
 
 Upon the chosen spot, 
 And there they stood together, 
 
 The palace and the cot ! 
 
100 THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Sure such unseemly neighbors 
 
 Were never seen before ; 
 " His Majesty is doting," 
 
 His silly courtiers swore ; 
 But all true loyal subjects, 
 
 They loved the King the more. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Long, long he ruled his kingdom 
 In honor and renown ; 
 
 But danger ever threatens 
 
 The head that wears a crown ; 
 
 And Fortune, tired of smiling, 
 For once put on a frown. 
 
 xx. 
 
 For ever secret Envy 
 Attends a high estate ; 
 
 And ever lurking Malice 
 
 Pursues the good and great ; 
 
 And ever base Ambition 
 Will end in deadly Hate ! 
 
THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 101 
 XXI. 
 
 And so two wicked courtiers, 
 
 Who long had strove in vain, 
 By craft and evil counsels, 
 
 To mar the monarch s reign, 
 Contrived a scheme infernal 
 
 Whereby he should be slain ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But as all deeds of darkness 
 
 Are wont to leave a clue 
 Before the glaring sunlight 
 
 To bring the knaves to view ; 
 That sin may be rewarded, 
 
 And Satan get his due, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 To plan their wicked treason, 
 
 They sought a lonely spot 
 Behind the royal palace, 
 
 Hard by this widow s cot, 
 Who heard their machinations, 
 
 And straight revealed the plot ! 
 
102 THE KING AND THE COTTAGER. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " I see," exclaimed the monarch, 
 " The just are wise alone ; 
 
 Who spares the rights of others 
 May chance to guard his own ; 
 
 The widow s humble cottage 
 
 Has propped a monarch s throne ! " 
 
LOVE AND LUCRE. 
 
 A3* ALLEGORY. 
 
 LOVE and LUCRE met one day, 
 In chill November weather, 
 
 And so to while the time away, 
 They held discourse together. 
 
 LOVE at first was rather shy, 
 As thinking there was danger 
 
 In venturing so very nigh 
 The haughty-looking stranger. 
 
 But LUCRE managed to employ 
 
 Behavior so potential, 
 That, in a trice, the bashful boy 
 
 Grew bold and confidential. 
 
104 LOVE AND LUCRE. 
 
 " I hear," quoth LUCRE, bowing low, 
 " With all your hearts and honey, 
 
 You sometimes suffer is it so? 
 For lack of mortal money." 
 
 LOVE owned that he was poor in aught 
 
 Except in golden fancies, 
 And ne er as yet had given a thought 
 
 To mending his finances ; 
 
 " Besides, I ve heard " so LOVE went on, 
 
 The other s hint improving 
 " That gold, however sought or won, 
 
 Is not a friend to loving." 
 
 " An arrant lie ! as you shall see, 
 
 Full long ago invented, 
 By knaves who know not you nor me, 
 
 To tickle the demented." 
 
 i 
 And LUCRE waved his wand, and lo ! 
 
 By magical expansion, 
 
LOVE AND LUCRE. 105 
 
 LOVE saw his little hovel grow 
 Into a stately mansion ! 
 
 And where, before, he used to sup 
 
 Untended in his cottage, 
 And grumble o er the earthen cup 
 
 That held his meagre pottage, 
 
 Now, smoking viands crown his board, 
 
 And many a flowing chalice ; 
 His larder was with plenty stored, 
 
 And beauty filled the palace ! 
 
 And LOVE, though rather lean at first, 
 
 And tinged with melancholy, 
 
 On generous wines and puddings nursed, 
 
 Grew very stout and jolly ! 
 
 Yet, mindful of his early friend, 
 
 He never turns detractor, 
 But prays that blessings may attend 
 
 His worthy benefactor ; 
 
106 LOVE AND LUCRE. 
 
 And when his friends are gay above 
 Their evening whist or eucre, 
 
 And drink a brimming health to LOVK, 
 He drinks " success to LUCRE ! " 
 
DEATH AND CUPID. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 AH ! who but oft hath marvelled why 
 
 The gods who rule above 
 Should e er permit the young to die, 
 
 The old to fall in love! 
 
 Ah ! why should hapless human kind 
 
 Be punished out of season ? 
 Pray listen, and perhaps you 11 find 
 
 My rhyme may give the reason. 
 
 DEATH, strolling out one Summer s day, 
 Met CUPID, with his sparrows ; 
 
 And, bantering in a merry way, 
 Proposed a change of arrows ! 
 
108 DEATH AND CUPID. 
 
 " Agreed ! " quoth CUPID, "I foresee 
 The queerest game of errors ; 
 
 For you the King of Hearts will be ! 
 And I ll be King of Terrors!" 
 
 And so t was done alas the day 
 That multiplied their arts ! 
 
 Each from the other bore away 
 A portion of his darts ! 
 
 And that explains the reason why, 
 
 Despite the gods above, 
 The young are often doomed to die ; 
 
 The old to fall in love! 
 
THE FAMILY MAN. 
 
 I WAS once a jolly young beau, 
 And knew how to pick up a fan, 
 
 But I ve done with all that, you must know, 
 For now I m a family man ! 
 
 When a partner I ventured to take, 
 The ladies all favored the plan ; 
 
 They vowed I was certain to make 
 " Such an excellent family man ! " 
 
 If I travel by land or by water, 
 
 I have charge of some Susan or Ann ; 
 
 Mrs. Brown is so sure that her daughter 
 Is safe with a family man ! 
 
 The trunks and the bandboxes round em 
 TVith something like horror I scan, 
 
 But though I may mutter, " Confound em ! " 
 I smile like a family man ! 
 
THE FAMILY MAN. 
 
 I once was as gay as a templar, 
 But levity s now under ban ; 
 
 Young people must have an exemplar, 
 And I am a family man ! 
 
 The club-men I meet in the city 
 All treat me as well as they can ; 
 
 And only exclaim, " What a pity 
 Poor Tom is a family man ! " 
 
 I own I am getting quite pensive ; 
 
 Ten children, from David to Dan, 
 Is a family rather extensive ; 
 
 But then I m a family man ! 
 
NE CREDE COLORI: 
 
 OR, TRUST NOT TO APPEARANCES. 
 
 THE musty old maxim is wise, 
 Although with antiquity hoary ; 
 
 What an excellent homily lies 
 
 In the motto, " Ne crede colori!" 
 
 A blustering minion of Mars 
 Is vaunting his battles so gory ; 
 
 You see some equivocal scars, 
 And mutter, Ne crede colori! 
 
 A fellow solicits your tin 
 By telling a runaway story ; 
 
 You look at his ebony skin, 
 And think of, Ne crede colori! 
 
112 NE CREDE COLORI. 
 
 You gaze upon beauty that vies 
 With the rose and the lily in glory ; 
 
 But certain " inscrutable dyes " 
 Remind you, Ne crede colori! 
 
 There s possibly health in the flush 
 That rivals the red of Aurora ; 
 
 But brandy-and-water can blush, 
 And whisper, Ne crede colori! 
 
 My story is presently done, 
 
 Like the ballad of good Mother Morey ; 
 But all imposition to shun, 
 
 Remember, Ne crede colori! 
 
CLARA TO CLOE. 
 
 AX EPISTLE FROM A CITY LADY TO A COUNTRY 
 COUSIN. 
 
 DEAR CLOE: I m deeply your debtor, 
 
 (Though the mail was uncommonly slow,) 
 For the very agreeable letter 
 
 You wrote me a fortnight ago. 
 I know you are eagerly waiting 
 
 For all that I promised to write, 
 But my pen is unequal to stating 
 
 One half that my heart would indite. 
 
 The weather is terribly torrid ; 
 
 And writing s a serious task ; 
 The new style of bonnet is horrid ; 
 
 And so is the new-fashioned basque; 
 The former but language would fail 
 
 Were its epithets doubly as strong 
 The latter is worn with a tail 
 
 Very ugly and tediously long ! 
 
114 CLARA TO CLOE. 
 
 And then as to crinoline Gracious ! 
 
 If you only could see cousin Ruth 
 The pictures, for once, are veracious, 
 
 And editors utter the truth ! 
 I know you will think it a pity ; 
 
 And every one makes such a sneer of it ; 
 But there isn t a saint in the city 
 
 Whose skirts are entirely clear of it ! 
 
 And then what a fortune of stuff 
 
 To cover the skeleton over ! 
 Charles says the idea is enough 
 
 To frighten a sensible lover ; 
 And, pretending that we are to blame 
 
 For every financial declension, 
 Swears husbands must soon do the same, 
 
 If wives have another " extension ! " 
 
 The town is exceedingly dull, 
 And so is the latest new farce ; 
 
 The parks are uncommonly full, 
 But beaux are deplorably scarce ; 
 
CLARA TO CLOE. 115 
 
 They re gone to the " Springs " and the " Falls," 
 To exhibit their greyhounds and graces, 
 
 And recruit at, what Frederick calls 
 The Brandy-and- Watering Places ! 
 
 Since my former epistle, which carried 
 
 The news of that curious plot ; 
 Of Miss S. who ran off and was married ; 
 
 Of Miss B. who ran off and was not, 
 There is n t a whisper of scandal 
 
 To keep gentle ladies in humor, 
 And Gossip, the pleasant old vandal, 
 
 Is dying for want of a rumor ! CLARA. 
 
 P. S. But was n t it funny ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones, at a party last week, 
 (The lady so proud of her money, 
 
 Of whom you have oft heard me speak,) 
 Appeared so delightfully stupid, 
 
 When she spoke, through the squeak of her 
 
 phthisic, 
 Of the statue of Psyche and Cupid 
 
 As " the statute of Cuppid and Physic ! " C. 
 
CLOE TO CLARA. 
 
 A SARATOGA LETTER. 
 
 DEAR CLARA : I wish you were here 
 
 The prettiest spot upon earth ! 
 With everything charming, my dear, 
 
 Beaux, badinage, music, and mirth ! 
 Such rows of magnificent trees, 
 
 Overhanging such beautiful walks, 
 Where lovers may stroll, if they please, 
 
 And indulge in the sweetest of talks ! 
 
 We go every morning, like geese, 
 
 To drink at the favorite Spring ; 
 Six tumblers of water a-piece, 
 
 Is simply the regular thing ; 
 For such is its wonderful virtue, 
 
 Though rather unpleasant at first, 
 No quantity ever can hurt you, 
 
 Unless you should happen to burst ! 
 
CLOE TO CLARA. 117 
 
 And then, what a gossiping sight ! 
 
 What talk about William and Harry ; 
 How Julia was spending last night ; 
 
 And wliy Miss Morton should marry ! 
 Dear Clara, I ve happened to see 
 
 Full many a tea-table slaughter; 
 But, really, scandal with tea 
 
 Is nothing to scandal with water ! 
 
 Apropos of the Spring have you heard 
 
 The quiz of a gentleman here 
 On a pompous M. C. who averred 
 
 That the name was remarkably queer ? 
 " The Spring, to keep it from failing, 
 
 With wood is encompassed about, 
 And derives, from its permanent railing, 
 
 The title of < Congress, no doubt ! " 
 
 T is pleasant to guess at the reason 
 
 The genuine motive which brings 
 Such all-sorts of folks, in the season, 
 
 To stop a few days at the Springs. 
 
118 CLOE TO CLARA. 
 
 Some come to partake of the waters, 
 (The sensible, old-fashioned elves,) 
 
 Some come to dispose of their daughters, 
 And some to dispose of themselves ! 
 
 Some come to exhibit their faces 
 
 To new and admiring beholders ; 
 Some come to exhibit their graces, 
 
 And some to exhibit their shoulders ; 
 Some come to make people stare 
 
 At the elegant dresses they ve got ; 
 Some to show what a lady may wear, 
 
 And some, what a lady should not ! 
 
 Some come to squander their treasure, 
 
 And some their funds to improve ; 
 And some for mere love of pleasure, 
 
 And some for the pleasure of love ; 
 And some to escape from the old, 
 
 And some to see what is new ; 
 But most it is plain to be told 
 
 Come here because other folks do ! 
 
CLOE TO CLARA. 119 
 
 And that, I suppose, is the reason 
 
 Why / am enjoying, to-day, 
 What & called " the height of the season " 
 
 In rather the loftiest way. 
 Good-bye for now 1 must stop 
 
 To Charley s command I resign, 
 So I m his for the regular hop, 
 
 But ever most tenderly thine, CLOE. 
 
WISHING. 
 
 OP all amusements for the mind, 
 
 From logic down to fishing, 
 There isn t one that you can find 
 
 So very cheap as " wishing." 
 A very choice diversion too, 
 
 If we but rightly use it, 
 And not, as we are apt to do, 
 
 Pervert it, and abuse it. 
 
 I wish a common wish indeed, 
 
 My purse were somewhat fatter, 
 That I might cheer the child of need, 
 
 And not my pride to flatter ; 
 That I might make Oppression reel, 
 
 As only gold can make it, 
 And break the Tyrant s rod of steel, 
 
 As only gold can break it. 
 
, 
 
 WISHING. 151 
 
 I wish that Sympathy and Love, 
 
 And every human passion, 
 That has its origin above, 
 
 Would come and keep in fashion ; 
 That Scorn, and Jealousy, and Hate, 
 
 And every base emotion, 
 Were buried fifty fathom deep 
 
 Beneath the waves of Ocean! 
 
 I wish that friends were always true, 
 
 And motives always pure ; 
 I wish the good were not so few, 
 
 I wish the bad were fewer; 
 I wish that parsons ne er forgot 
 
 To heed their pious teaching ; 
 I wish that practising was not 
 
 So different from preaching ! 
 
 I wish that modest worth might be 
 Appraised with truth and candor ; 
 
 I wish that innocence were free 
 From treachery and slander; 
 
. 
 
 WISHING. 
 
 I wish that men their vows would mind ; 
 
 That women ne er were rovers ; 
 I wish that wives were always kind, 
 
 And husbands always lovers ! 
 
 I wish in fine that Joy and Mirth, 
 
 And every good Ideal, 
 May come erewhile, throughout the earth, 
 
 To be the glorious Real ; 
 Till God shall every creature bless 
 
 With his supremest blessing, 
 And Hope be lost in Happiness, 
 
 And Wishing in Possessing ! 
 
RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 
 
 A TRAVESTIE. 
 
 PERHAPS, my dear boy, you may never have heard 
 Of that wicked old monarch, KING RICHARD THE 
 
 THIRD, 
 
 Whose actions were often extremely absurd ; 
 And who led such a sad life, 
 Such a wanton and mad life ; 
 Indeed, I may say, such a wretchedly bad life, 
 I suppose I am perfectly safe in declaring, 
 There was ne er such a monster of infamous daring; 
 In all sorts of crime he was wholly unsparing ; 
 In pride and ambition was quite beyond bearing ; 
 And had a bad habit of cursing and swearing. 
 
 I must own, my dear boy, I have more than sus 
 pected 
 The King s education was rather neglected; 
 
124 RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 
 
 And that at your school with any two " Dicks " 
 Whom your excellent teacher diurnally pricks 
 In his neat little tables, in order to fix 
 Each pupil s progression with numeral nicks, 
 Master RICHARD Y. GLOSTER would often have 
 
 heard 
 His standing recorded as, " Richard the third ! " 
 
 But whatever of learning his Majesty had, 
 
 Tis clear the King s English was shockingly bad, 
 
 At the slightest pretence 
 
 Of disloyal offence, 
 
 His anger exceeded all reason or sense ; 
 And, having no need to foster or nurse it, he 
 Would open his wrath, then, as if to disperse it, he 
 Would scatter his curses like College degrees ; 
 
 And, quite at his ease, 
 
 Conferred his " d-tfa." 
 As plenty and cheap as a young University! 
 
 And yet Richard s tongue was remarkably smooth; 
 Could utter a lie quite as easy as truth; 
 (Another bad habit he got in his youth ;) 
 
RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 125 
 
 And had, on occasion, a powerful battery 
 
 Of plausible phrases and eloquent flattery, 
 
 Which gave him, my boy, in that barbarous day, 
 
 (Things are different noAv, I am happy to say,) 
 
 Over feminine hearts a most perilous sway. 
 
 The women, in spite of an odious hump 
 
 Which he wore on his back, all thought him a 
 
 trump ; 
 
 And just when he M played them the scurviest trick, 
 They d swear in their hearts that this crooked old 
 
 stick, 
 
 This treacherous, dangerous, dissolute Dick, 
 For honor and virtue beat Cato all hollow ; 
 And in figure and face was another Apollo ! 
 
 He murdered their brothers, 
 
 And fathers and mothers ; 
 
 And, worse than all that, he slaughtered by dozens 
 His own royal uncles and nephews and cousins ; 
 And then, in the cunningest sort of orations, 
 
 In smooth conversations, 
 
 And flattering ovations, 
 Made love to their principal female relations ! 
 
126 RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 
 
 Twas very improper, my boy, you must know, 
 For the son of a King to behave himself so ; 
 And you 11 scarcely believe what the chronicles 
 show 
 
 Of his wonderful wooings, 
 
 And infamous doings ; 
 But here s an exploit that he certainly did do 
 
 Killed his own cousin NED, 
 
 As he slept in his bed, 
 And married, next day, the disconsolate widow ! 
 
 I don t understand how such ogres arise, 
 But beginning, perhaps, with things little in size, 
 Such as torturing beetles and bluebottle-flies, 
 Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog s eyes, 
 King Richard had grown so wantonly cruel, 
 He minded a murder no more than a duel; 
 He d indulge, on the slightest pretence or occasion, 
 In his favorite amusement of Decapitation, 
 
 Until "Off with his head!" 
 
 It is credibly said, 
 
 From his Majesty s mouth came as easy and pat 
 As from an old constable, " Off with his hat ! " 
 
RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 127 
 
 One really shivers, 
 
 And fairly quivers, 
 
 To think of the treatment of Grey, and Rivers, 
 And Hastings, and Vaughn, and other good livers, 
 All suddenly sent, at the tap of a drum, 
 From the Kingdom of England to Kingdom- Come 
 Of Buckingham doomed to a tragical end 
 For being the tyrant s particular friend; 
 Of Clarence who died, it is mournful to think, 
 Of wine that he was n t permitted to drink ! 
 And the beautiful babies of royal blood, 
 Two little White Roses both nipt in the bud ! 
 And silly Queen Anne what sorrow it cost her 
 (And served her right!) for daring to foster 
 The impudent suit of this Richard of Gloster ; 
 Who, instead" of conferring a royal gratuity, 
 A dower, or even a decent Anne-uity, 
 Just gave her a portion of something or other 
 That made her as quiet as Pharaoh s mother ! 
 
 Ah, Richard! you re going it quite too fast; 
 Your doom is slow, but it s coming at last ; 
 
128 RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 
 
 Your bloody crown 
 
 "Will topple down, 
 And you 11 be done uncommonly brown ! 
 
 Your foes are thick, 
 
 My daring Dick, 
 
 And RICHMOND, a prince and a regular brick, 
 Is after you now with a very sharp stick ! 
 
 On Bosworth field the armies to-night 
 Are pitching their tents in each other s sight ; 
 And to-morrow ! to-morrow ! they re going to 
 fight ! 
 
 And now King Richard has gone to bed; 
 
 But e en in his sleep 
 
 He cannot keep 
 The past or the future out of his head. 
 
 In his deep remorse, 
 
 Each mangled corse 
 
 Of all he had slain, or, what was worse, 
 Their ghosts, came up in terrible force, 
 And greeted his ear with unpleasant discourse, 
 
RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 129 
 
 Until, with a scream, 
 He woke from his dream, 
 And shouted aloud for " another horse ! " 
 
 Perhaps you may think, my little dear, 
 
 King Richard s request was rather queer ; 
 
 But I 11 presently make it exceedingly clear : 
 
 THE ROYAL SLEEPER WAS OVERFED. 
 
 I mean to say that, against his habit, 
 
 He d eaten Welch-rabbit 
 With very bad whiskey on going to bed. 
 I ve had the Night-Mare with horrible force, 
 And much prefer a different horse ! 
 
 But see ! the murky Night is gone ! 
 The Morn is up, and the Fight is on ! 
 The Knights are engaging, the warfare is waging, 
 On the right on the left, the battle is raging; 
 King Richard is down ! 
 Will he save his crown ? 
 There s a crack in it now ! he s beginning to 
 
 bleed ! 
 Aha ! King Richard has lost his steed ! 
 
130 RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 
 
 (At a moment like this t is a terrible need !) 
 He shouts aloud with thundering force, 
 And offers a very high price for a horse. 
 But it s all in vain the battle is done 
 The day is lost ! and the day is won ! 
 And RICHMOND is King ! and RICHARD s a corse ! 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Remember, my boy, that moral enormities 
 Are apt to attend corporeal deformities. 
 Whatever you have, or whatever you lack, 
 Beware of getting a crook in your back ; 
 And, while you re about it, I d very much rather 
 You d grow tall and superb, i. e. copy your father ! 
 
 Don t learn to be cruel, pray let me advise, 
 By torturing beetles and bluebottle-flies, 
 Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog s eyes. 
 
 If you ever should marry, remember to wed 
 
 A handsome, plump, modest, sweet-spoken, well-bred, 
 
 And sensible maiden of twenty instead 
 
 Of a widow whose husband is recently dead ! 
 
RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 131 
 
 If you d shun in your naps those horrible Incubi, 
 Beware what you eat, and be careful what drink 
 
 you buy ; 
 
 Or else you. may see, in your sleep s perturbations, 
 Some old and uncommonly ugly relations, 
 Who ll be very apt to disturb your nutations 
 By unpleasant allusions, and rude observations ! 
 
HO-HO OF THE GOLDEN BELT. 
 
 ONE OF THE " NINE STORIES OF CHINA," 
 VERSIFIED AND DIVERSIFIED. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL maiden was little MiN-NE, 
 Eldest daughter of wise WANG-KE ; 
 Her skin had the color of saffron tea, 
 And her nose was flat as flat could be ; 
 And never were seen such beautiful eyes, 
 Two almond-kernels in shape and size, 
 Set in a couple of slanting gashes, 
 And not in the least disfigured by lashes ; 
 
 And then such feet ! 
 
 You d scarcely meet 
 In the longest walk through the grandest street, 
 
 (And you might go seeking 
 
 From Nanking to Peeking,) 
 A pair so remarkably small and neat ! 
 
 Two little stumps, 
 
 Mere pedal lumps, 
 
HO-HO OF THE GOLDEX BELT. 133 
 
 That toddle along with the funniest thumps, 
 
 In China, you know, are reckoned trumps. 
 
 You guess the owner, the moment you hear em, 
 
 By the classical rule, " ex pede Venerem ! " 
 
 It seems a trifle, to make such a boast of it ; 
 
 But how they will dress it, 
 
 And bandage and press it, 
 By making the least, to make the most of it ! 
 
 As you may suppose, 
 
 She had plenty of beaux 
 Bowing around her beautiful toes, 
 Praising her feet, and eyes, and nose, 
 In rapturous verse and elegant prose ! 
 She had lots of lovers, old and young ; 
 There was lofty LONG, and babbling LUNG, 
 Opulent TIN, and eloquent TUNG, 
 Musical SING, and, the rest among, 
 Great HANG-YU and YU-BE-HUNG. 
 
 But though they smiled and smirked and bowed, 
 None could please her of all the crowd ; 
 LUNG and TUNG she thought too loud ; 
 
134 HO-HO OF THE GOLDEX BELT. 
 
 Opulent TIN was much too proud ; 
 
 Lofty LONG was quite too tall ; 
 
 Musical SING sung very small ; 
 
 And, most remarkable freak of all, 
 
 Of great HANG-Yu the lady made game, 
 
 And YU-BE-HUNG she mocked the same, 
 
 By echoing back his ugly name ! 
 
 But the hardest heart is doomed to melt ; 
 
 Love is a passion that will be felt ; 
 
 And just when scandal was making free 
 
 To hint " what a pretty old maid she d be " 
 
 Little MIN-NE, 
 
 (Who but she?) 
 
 Married Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt! 
 A man, I must own, of bad reputation, 
 And low in purse, though high in station 
 A sort of Imperial poor-relation ; 
 Who ranked as the Emperor s second cousin, 
 Multiplied by a hundred dozen ; 
 And, to mark the love the Emperor felt, 
 
 Had a pension clear 
 
 Of three pounds a-year, 
 And the honor of wearing a Golden Belt ! 
 
HO-HO OF THE GOLDEX BELT. 135 
 
 And gallant Ho-Ho 
 
 Could really show 
 A handsome face, as faces go 
 In the Flowery Land where, you must know, 
 The finest flowers of beauty grow. 
 He d the very widest kind of jaws, 
 And his nails were like an eagle s claws, 
 And though it may seem a wondrous tail 
 (Truth is mighty and will prevail ! ) 
 He d a queue as long as the deepest cause 
 Under the Emperor s chancery laws ! 
 
 Yet how he managed to win 
 
 The men declared they could n t see ; 
 
 But all the ladies, over their tea, 
 
 In this one point were known to agree : 
 
 Four gifts were sent to aid his plea: 
 
 A srnoking-pipe with a golden clog, 
 
 A box of tea, and a poodle dog, 
 
 And a painted heart that was all a-flame, 
 
 And bore, in blood, the lover s name. 
 
 Ah! how could presents pretty as these 
 
136 HO-HO OF THE GOLDEN BELT. 
 
 A delicate lady fail to please ? 
 She smoked the pipe with the golden clog, 
 And drank the tea, and ate the dog, 
 And kept the heart, and that s the way 
 The match was made, the gossips say. 
 
 I can t describe the wedding day, 
 Which fell in the lovely month of May ; 
 Nor stop to tell of the Honey-Moon, 
 And how it vanished all too soon ; 
 Alas ! that I the truth must speak, 
 And say, that in the fourteenth week, 
 Soon as the wedding-guests were gone, 
 
 And their wedding-suits began to doff, 
 MiN-Nte was weeping and " taking on," 
 
 For he had been trying to " take her off ! " 
 Six wives before he had sent to Heaven, 
 And being partial to number " Seven," 
 He wished to add his latest pet, 
 Just, perhaps, to make up the set. 
 Mayhap the rascal found a cause 
 Of discontent in a certain clause 
 In the Emperor s very liberal laws, 
 
HO-HO OF THE GOLDEN BELT. 137 
 
 Which gives, when a Golden Belt is wed, 
 Six hundred pounds to furnish the bed ; 
 And if, in turn, he marry a score, 
 With every wife six hundred more. 
 
 First lie tried to murder 
 
 With i special cup of poisoned tea ; 
 
 But the lady, smelling a mortal foe, 
 
 Cried Ho-Ho! 
 I m very fond of mild Souchong, 
 But you my love you make it too strong ! " 
 
 At last Ho-PIo, the treacherous man, 
 Contrived the most infernal plan 
 Invented since the world began : 
 He went and got him a savage dog, 
 Who d eat a woman as soon as a frog, 
 Kept him a day without any prog, 
 Then shut him up in an iron bin, 
 Slipped the bolt, and locked him in ; 
 
 Then giving the key 
 
 To poor MIN-NE, 
 
138 HO-HO OF THE GOLDBX BELT. 
 
 Said, " Love, there s something you must n t see 
 In the chest beneath the orange-tree." 
 
 ****** 
 Poor, mangled MiN-NE ! with her latest breath, 
 She told her father the cause of her death ; 
 And so it reached the Emperor s ear, 
 And his Highness said, " It is very clear, 
 Ho-Ho has committed a murder here ! " 
 
 And he doomed Ho-Ho to end his life 
 By the terrible dog that killed his wife ; 
 But in mercy (let his praise be sung ! ) 
 His thirteen brothers were merely hung, 
 And his slaves bambooed, in the mildest way, 
 For a calendar month, three times a day ; 
 And that s the way that JUSTICE dealt 
 With wicked Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt ! 
 
.TOM BROWN S DAY IN GOTHAM. 
 
 Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et URBEM. 
 
 I LL tell you a story of THOMAS BROWN 
 I don t mean the poet of Shropshire town ; 
 Nor the Scotch Professor of wide renown ; 
 But " Honest Tom Brown ; " so called, no doubt, 
 
 Because with the same 
 
 Identical name, 
 
 A good many fellows were roving about 
 Of whom the sheriff might prudently swear 
 That " honest " with them, was a non-est affair ! 
 
 Now Tom was a Yankee of wealth and worth, 
 Who lived and throve by tilling the Earth ; 
 
 For Tom had wrought 
 
 As a farmer ought, 
 
 Who, doomed to toil by original sinning, 
 Began like Adam at the beginning. 
 
140 
 
 He ploughed, he harrowed, and he sowed ; 
 
 He drilled, he planted, and he hoed ; 
 
 He dug and delved, and reaped and mowed. 
 
 (I wish I could but I can t tell now 
 
 "Whether he used a subsoil-plough ; 
 
 Or whether, in soothj he had ever seen 
 
 A regular reaping and raking-machine.) 
 
 He took most pains 
 
 With the nobler grains 
 Of higher value, and finer tissues 
 
 Which, possibly, one 
 
 Inclined to a pun, 
 
 Would call like Harper his " cereal issues ! " 
 With wheat his lands were all a-blaze ; 
 T was amazing to look at his fields of maize ; 
 
 And there were places 
 
 That showed rye-faces 
 As pleasant to see as so many Graces. 
 
 And as for Hops, 
 
 His annual crops, 
 
 (So very extensive that, on my soul, 
 They fairly reached from pole to pole !) 
 
TOM BROWN S DAY ix GOTHAM. 141 
 
 Would beat the guess of any old fogie, 
 Or the longest season at Saratoga ! 
 Whatever seed did most abound, 
 In the grand result that Autumn found, 
 
 It was his plan, 
 
 Though a moderate man, 
 To be early running it into the ground ; 
 
 That is to say, 
 
 In another way : 
 Whether the seed was barley or hay, 
 Large or little, or green or gray, 
 Provided only it promised to " pay," 
 He never chose to labor in vain 
 By stupidly going against the grain, 
 But hastened away, without stay or stop, 
 And carefully put it into his crop. 
 
 And he raised tomatoes 
 
 And lots of potatoes, 
 More sorts, in sooth, than I could tell ; 
 Turnips, that always turned up well ; 
 Celery, all that he could sell ; 
 Grapes by the bushel, sour and sweet ; 
 Beets, that certainly could n t be beat ; 
 
142 TOM BROWN S DAY IN GOTHAM. 
 
 Cabbage like some sartorial mound ; 
 
 Vines, that fairly cw-cumbered the ground ; 
 
 Some pumpkins more than he could house, and 
 
 Ten thousand pears ; (that s twenty thousand !) 
 
 Fruit of all kinds and propagations, 
 
 Baldwins, Pippins, and Carnations, 
 
 And apples of other appellations. 
 
 To sum it all up in the briefest space, 
 
 As you may suppose, Brown flourished apace, 
 
 Just because he proceeded, I venture to say, 
 
 In the nutta-retrorsum-vestigi-ous way ; 
 
 That is if you re not University-bred 
 
 He took Crocket s advice about going ahead. 
 
 At all the State Fairs he held a fair station, 
 
 Raised horses and cows and his own reputation ; 
 
 Made butter and money ; took a Justice s niche ; 
 
 Grew wheat, wool, and hemp ; corn, cattle, and rich ! 
 
 But who would be always a country-clown ? 
 
 And so Tom Brown 
 
 Sat himself down, 
 And, knitting his brow in a studious frown, 
 
 He said, says he : 
 
 It s plain to see, 
 
TOM BROWN S DAY IN GO*THAM. 143 
 
 And I think Mrs. B. will be apt to agree, 
 (If she don t, it s much the same to me,) 
 
 That I, TOM BROWN, 
 
 Should go to town ! 
 
 But then, says he, what town shall it be ? 
 Boston-town is consid rably nearer, 
 And York is farther, and so will be dearer, 
 But then, of course, the sights will be queerer ; 
 Besides, I m told, you re surely a lost un, 
 If you once get astray in the streets of Boston. 
 
 York is right-angled ; 
 
 And Boston, right-tangled ; 
 
 And both, I ve no doubt, are uncommon new 
 fangled. 
 
 Ah ! the " SMITHS," I remember, belong to York, 
 ( Twas ten years ago I sold them my pork,) 
 Good, honest traders I d like to know them 
 And so t is settled I 11 go to Gotham ! 
 
 And so Tom Brown 
 
 Sat himself down, 
 
 With many a smile and never a frown, 
 And rode, by rail, to that notable town 
 
144 
 
 Which I really think well worthy of mention 
 As being America s greatest invention ! 
 Indeed, I ll be bound that if Nature and Art, 
 (Though the former, being older, has gotten the 
 
 start,) 
 
 In some new Crystal Palace of suitable size, 
 Should show their chefs-d oeuvre, and contend for 
 
 the prize, 
 The latter would prove, when it came to the 
 
 scratch, 
 
 Whatever you may think, no contemptible match ; 
 For should old Mrs. Nature endeavor to stagger 
 
 her 
 
 By presenting, at last, her majestic Niagara ; 
 Miss Art would produce an equivalent work 
 In her great, overwhelming, unfinished NEW YORK ! 
 
 And now Mr. Brown 
 
 Was fairly in town, 
 
 In that part of the city they used to call "down," 
 Not far from the spot of ancient renown 
 
 As being the scene 
 
 Of the Bowling Green, 
 
TOM BROWN S DAY IN GOTHAM. 145 
 
 A fountain that looked like a huge tureen 
 Piled up with rocks, and a squirt between ; 
 But the " Bowling " now has gone where they tally 
 "The Fall of the Ten," in a neighboring alley; 
 And as to the " Green " why, that you will find 
 Whenever you see the " invisible " kind ! 
 And he stopped at an Inn that s known very well, 
 " Delmonico s " once now " Stevens s Hotel " ; 
 (And, to venture a pun which I think rather witty, 
 There s no better Inn in this Inn-famous city !) 
 
 And Mr. Brown 
 
 Strolled up town, 
 
 And I m going to write his travels down ; 
 But if you suppose Tom Brown will disclose 
 The usual sins and follies of those 
 Who leave rural regions to see city-shows 
 
 You could n t well make 
 
 A greater mistake ; 
 
 For Brown was a man of excellent sense ; 
 Could see very well through a hole in a fence, 
 And was honest and plain, without sham or pre 
 tence ; 
 
 10 
 
DAY IN GOTHAM. 
 
 Of sharp, city-learning lie could n t have boasted, 
 But he was n t the chap to be easily roasted ; 
 Though, like many a " Bill," he was n t well 
 posted." 
 
 And here let me say, 
 In a very dogmatic, oracular way, 
 (And I ll prove it, before I have done with rny 
 
 lay,) 
 
 Not only that honesty s likely to " pay," 
 But that one must be, as a general rule, 
 At least half a knave to be wholly a fool ! 
 
 Of pocketbook-dropping, Tom never had heard, 
 (Or at least if he had, he d forgotten the word,) 
 And now when, at length, the occasion occurred, 
 For that sort of chaff he was n t the bird. 
 The gentleman argued with eloquent force, 
 And begged him to pocket the money, of course ; 
 But Brown, without thinking at all what he said, 
 Popped out the first thing that entered his head, 
 (Which chanced to be wondrously fitting and true,) 
 No no my dear Sir I 11 be burnt if I 
 do!" 
 
147 
 
 Two lively young fellows, of elegant mien, 
 Amused him awhile with a pretty machine 
 An ivory ball, which he never had seen. 
 But though the unsuspecting stranger 
 In the "patent safe" saw.no patent danger, 
 He easily dodged the nefarious net, 
 Because " he was n t accustomed to bet." 
 
 Ah ! here, I wot, 
 
 Is exactly the spot 
 
 To make a small fortune as easy as not ! 
 That man with the watch what lungs he has 
 
 got! 
 
 It s " Going the best of that elegant lot 
 To close a concern, at a desperate rate, 
 The jeweller ruined as certain as fate ! 
 A capital watch ! you may see by the weight 
 Worth one hundred dollars as easy as eight 
 Or half of that sum to melt down into plate 
 (Brown does n t know Peter from Peter the 
 Great) 
 
 But then I can t dwell, 
 
 I m ordered to sell, 
 
148 TOM BROWN S DAY IN GOTHAM. 
 
 And mus n t stand weeping just look at the 
 
 shell 
 
 I warrant the ticker to operate well 
 Nine dollars ! it s hard to be selling it under 
 A couple of fifties it. s cruel, by Thunder! 
 Ten dollars ! I m offered the man who secures 
 This splendid ten dollars ! say twelve, and it s 
 
 yours ! " 
 " Don t want it " quoth Brown "I don t wish 
 
 to buy ; 
 
 Fifty dollars, I m sure, one could n t call high 
 But to see the man ruined! Dear Sir, I de 
 clare 
 Between two or three bidders, it does n t seem 
 
 fair; 
 
 To knock it off now were surely a sin ; 
 Just wait, my dear Sir, till the people come in ! 
 Allow me to say, you disgrace your position 
 As Sheriff consid ring the debtor s condition 
 To sell such a watch without more competition ! " 
 And here Mr. Brown 
 Gave a very black frown, 
 Stepped leisurely out, and walked farther up town. 
 
TOM BROWN S DAY IN GOTHAM. 149 
 
 To see him stray along Broadway 
 
 In the afternoon of a summer s day, 
 
 And note what he chanced to see and say ; 
 
 And what people he meets 
 
 In the narrower streets, 
 Were a pregnant theme for a longer lay. 
 How he marvelled at those geological chaps 
 Who go poking about in crannies and gaps, 
 Those curious people in tattered breeches, 
 The rag-wearing, rag-picking sons of ditches, 
 Who find in the very nastiest niches 
 A " decent living," and sometimes riches ; 
 How he thought city prices exceedingly que er, 
 The busses too cheap, and the hacks too dear ; 
 How he stuck in the mud, and got lost in the 
 
 question 
 
 A problem too hard for his mental digestion 
 Why in cleaning the city, the city employs 
 Such a very small corps of such very small boys ; 
 How he judges by dress, and accordingly makes, 
 By mixing up classes, the drollest mistakes. 
 How as if simple vanity ever were vicious, 
 Or women of merit could be meretricious, 
 
150 TOM BROWN S DAY IN GOTHAM. 
 
 He imagines the dashing Fifth-Avenue dames 
 The same as the girls with unspeakable names ! 
 An exceedingly natural blunder in sooth, 
 But, I m happy to say, very far from the truth ; 
 For e en at the worst, whate er you suppose, 
 The one sort of ladies can choose their beaux, 
 While, as to the other but every one knows 
 What if t were a secret I would n t disclose. 
 
 And Mr. Brown 
 
 Returned from town, 
 
 With a bran new hat, and a muslin gown, 
 And he told the tale, when the sun was down, 
 How he spent his eagles, and saved his crown ; 
 How he showed his pluck by resisting the claim 
 Of an impudent fellow who asked his name ; 
 But paid as a gentleman ever is willing 
 At the old Park- Gate, the regular shilling ! 
 
POST-PRANDIAL VERSES. 
 
 RECITED AT THE FESTIVAL OF THE PSI UPS1LOK 
 FRATERNITY, IN BOSTON, JULY 21, 1853. 
 
 DEAR Brothers, who sit at this bountiful board, 
 
 With excellent viands so lavishly stored, 
 
 That, in newspaper phrase, t would undoubtedly 
 
 groan, 
 
 If groaning were but a convivial tone, 
 Which it is n t and therefore, by sympathy led. 
 The table, no doubt, is rejoicing instead. 
 Dear Brothers, I rise, and it won t be surprising 
 If you find me, like bread, all the better for 
 
 rising, 
 
 I rise to express my exceeding delight 
 In our cordial reunion this glorious night ! 
 
 Success to " PSI UPSILON ! " Beautiful name ! 
 To the eye and the ear it is pleasant the same ; 
 
152 POST-PBANDIAL VERSES. 
 
 Many thanks to old Cadmus who made us his 
 
 debtors, 
 
 By inventing, one day, those capital letters 
 Which still, from the heart, we shall know how to 
 
 speak 
 When we ve fairly forgotten the rest of our Greek ! 
 
 To be open and honest in all that you do ; 
 
 To every high trust to be faithful and true ; 
 
 In aught that concerns morality s scheme, 
 
 To be more ambitious to be than to seem; 
 
 To cultivate honor as higher in worth 
 
 Than favor of fortune, or genius, or birth ; 
 
 By every endeavor to render your lives 
 
 As spotless and fair as your possible wives ; 
 
 To treat with respect all the innocent rules 
 
 That keep us at peace with society s fools ; 
 
 But to face every canon that e er was designed 
 
 To batter a town or beleaguer a mind, 
 
 Ere you yield to the Moloch that Fashion has reared 
 
 One jot of your freedom, or hair of your beard, 
 
 All this, and much more, I might venture to teach, 
 
 Had I only a " call " and a " license to preach " 
 
POST-PRAXDIAL VEESES. 153 
 
 But since I have not, to my modesty true, 
 I 11 lay it all by as a layman should do 
 And drop a few lines, tipt with Momus s flies, 
 To angle for shiners that lurk in your eyes ! 
 
 May you ne er get in love or in debt, with a doubt 
 As to whether or no you will ever get out ; 
 May you ne er have a mistress who plays the 
 
 coquette, 
 
 Or a neighbor who blows on a cracked clarionet ; 
 May you learn the first use of a lock on your door, 
 And ne er, like Adonis, be killed by a bore ; 
 Shun canting and canters with resolute force, 
 (A " canter " is shocking, except in a horse ;) 
 At jovial parties mind what you are at, 
 Beware of your head and take care of your hat, 
 Lest you find that a favorite son of your mother 
 Has a brick in the one and an ache in the other ; 
 May you never, I pray, to worry your life, 
 Have a weak-minded friend, or a strong-minded wife; 
 A tailor distrustful, or partner suspicious ; 
 A dog that is rabid, or nag that is vicious ; 
 
154 POST-PRANDIAL VERSES, 
 
 Above all the chief blessings the gods can im 
 part, 
 
 May you keep a clear head and a generous heart; 
 Remember tis blessed to give and forgive; 
 Live chiefly to love, and love while you live; 
 And dying, when life s little journey is done, 
 May your last, fondest sigh, be Psi UPSILON! 
 
LINES ON MY THIRTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 ATT me ! the moments will not stay ! 
 Another year has rolled away; 
 And June (the second) scores the line 
 That tells me I am Thirty-nine! 
 
 As thus I haste the mile-stones by, 
 I mark the numbers with a sigh ; 
 And yet tis idle to repine 
 I ve come so soon to Thirty-nine ! 
 
 O, few that roam this world of ours, 
 To feel its thorns and pluck its flowers, 
 Have trod a brighter path than mine 
 From blithe thirteen to Thirty-nine ! 
 
 Health, home, and friends, (life s solid part,) 
 A merry laugh, a fresh, young heart, 
 
156 LINES ON MY THIRTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Poetic dreams, and love divine 
 Have I not these at Thirty-nine ? 
 
 Time ! forego thy wonted spite, 
 And lay thy future lashes light, 
 And, trust me, I will not repine 
 At twice the count of Thirty-nine ! 
 
SONNET TO . 
 
 THINE is an ever-changing beauty ; now 
 With that proud look, so lofty yet serene 
 In its high majesty, thou seem st a queen, 
 
 With all her diamonds blazing on her brow ! 
 
 Anon I see, as gentler thoughts arise 
 
 And mould thy features in their sweet control, 
 The pure, white ray that lights a maiden s soul, 
 
 And struggles outward through her drooping eyes ; 
 
 Anon they flash ; and now a golden light 
 
 Bursts o er thy beauty, like the Orient s glow, 
 Bathing thy shoulders and thy bosom s snow, 
 
 And all the woman beams upon my sight ! 
 I kneel unto the queen, like knight of yore ; 
 The maid I love ; the woman I adore ! 
 
EPIGRAMS. 
 
 ON A FAMOUS WATER-SUIT. 
 
 MY wonder is really boundless 
 
 That among the queer cases we try, 
 
 A land-case should often be groundless, 
 And a water-case always be dry ! 
 
 KISSING CASUISTRY. 
 
 WHEN SARAH JANE, the moral Miss, 
 Declares t is very wrong to kiss, 
 
 I 11 bet a shilling I see through it ; 
 The damsel, fairly understood, 
 Feels just as any Christian should, 
 
 She d rather suffer wrong than do it ! 
 
EPIGRAMS. 159 
 
 THE LOST CHARACTER. 
 
 JULIA is much concerned, God wot, 
 
 For the good name she has n t got ; 
 
 So mortgagors are often known 
 
 To guard the soil they deem their own ; 
 
 As if, forsooth, they didn t know 
 
 The land was forfeit long ago ! 
 
 REVERSING THE FIGURES. 
 
 MARIA, just at twenty, swore 
 
 That no man less than six feet four 
 
 Should be her chosen one. 
 At thirty she is glad to fix 
 A spouse exactly four feet six, 
 
 As better far than none ! 
 
 TO A POETICAL CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 ROSE hints she isn t one of those 
 Who have the gift of writing prose ; 
 But poetry s une autre chose, 
 And quite an easy thing to Rose ! 
 
160 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 As if an artist should decline, 
 For lack of skill, to paint a sign, 
 But, try him in the landscape line, 
 You 11 find his genius quite divine ! 
 
 A DILEMMA. 
 
 " WHENEVER I marry," says masculine ANN, 
 " I must really insist upon wedding a man ! " 
 But what if the man (for men are but human) 
 Should be equally nice about wedding a woman 
 
 ON A LONG-WINDED ORATOR. 
 
 THREE Parts compose a proper speech, 
 (So wise Quintilian s maxims teach,) 
 But LOQUAX never can get through, 
 In his orations, more than two. 
 He does n t stick at the " Beginning ; " 
 
 O O " 
 
 His "Middle" comes as sure as sinning; 
 Indeed, the whole one might commend, 
 Could he contrive to make an "End!" 
 
EPIGRAMS. 161 
 
 THE THREE WIVES : A JUBILATION. 
 
 MY First was a lady whose dominant passion 
 Was thorough devotion to parties and fashion ; 
 My Second, regardless of conjugal duty, 
 "Was only the worse for her wonderful beauty ; 
 My Third was a vixen in temper and life, 
 Without one essential to make a good wife. 
 Jubilate ! at last in my freedom I revel, 
 For I m clear of the World, and the Flesh, and 
 the Devil! 
 
 ll 
 
THE PRESS. 
 
 RECITED BEFORE THE LITERARY SOCIETIES OF BROWN UNIVEU- 
 SITY, 1855. 
 
THE PRESS. 
 
 A WORTHY parson, once upon a time, 
 Weary of listening to the sober rhyme 
 That, of a winter s evening, chanced to fall 
 From a young poet in a lecture hall, 
 His disappointment openly confessed, 
 And thus his censure to a friend confessed : 
 " The poem, Sir, is well enough no doubt, 
 But so much preaching one could do without ; 
 A little wit had pleased me more by half; 
 I did n t come to learn, I came to laugh ! " 
 
 So goes the world ; his very soul to save 
 They will not let poor Harlequin be grave; 
 But vote him weaker than a vestry-mouse, 
 Unless, like Samson, he brings down the house! 
 
166 THE PRESS. 
 
 Alas ! to-day, if such a rule prevail, 
 My sober muse were surely doomed to fail ; 
 Her subject grave demands a serious song, 
 And trivial treatment were ignobly wrong. < 
 Yet let me hope that e er my song be done, 
 When satire comes to punish with a pun, 
 Some pleasant fancy may your hearts beguile, 
 And win the favor of an answering smile. 
 
 I sing the Press ; O sweet Enchantress, bring 
 Fit inspiration for the theme I sing, 
 The Art of Arts, whose earliest, freshest fame, 
 With fierce debate, three rival cities claim; 
 The glorious art, that, scorning humbler birth, 
 Came at a bound upon the wondering earth, 1 
 Full-armed and strong her instant might to prove, 
 A new Minerva from the brain of Jove! 
 
 I marvel not that rival towns dispute 
 Where first the goddess set her radiant foot ; 
 That blest Mayence, with honest pride, should boast 
 The wondrous Bible of her wizard Faust ; 
 
THE PRESS. 167 
 
 That Haarlem, jealous of her proper fame, 
 Erects a statue to her Coster s name ; 
 While Strasburg s cits contemning all beside, 
 Vaunt their own hero with an equal pride. 
 
 How shall the poet venture to explain 
 
 Where plodding History labors still in vain 
 
 To solve the mystery the vexing doubt 
 
 That only deepens with the deepening shout 
 
 Of angry partisans ? The Muse essays 
 
 The dangerous task, and thus awards the bays : 
 
 Where counter claims the highest merit hide, 
 
 If large the gift, tis fairest to divide. 
 
 Honor to all who shared a noble part 
 
 To find, to cherish, or adorn the art; 
 
 Honor to him who, with enraptured eye, 
 
 First saw the nymph descending from the sky ; 
 
 Honor to him, whatever his name or land, 
 
 The first to kneel, and kiss her royal hand ; 
 
 Thrice honored he who, piercing the disguise 
 
 That barred her beauty from obtuser eyes, 
 
 First gave her shelter, when the dusky maid 
 
 Knocked at his door in homely garb arrayed, 
 
168 THE PRESS. 
 
 And found at length, beyond his hopes or prayers. 
 He d wooed and won an angel unawares ! 
 
 I sing the Press; alas, twere much the same 
 As though the Muse essayed the trump of fame ; 
 Though something harsh and grating in its tone, 
 She keeps a mightier trumpet of her own, 
 The which, while Freedom s banner is unfurled, 
 Shall swell her paeans through the wondering world ! 
 
 Strange is the sound when first the notes begin 
 Where human voices blend with Vulcan s din ; 
 The click, the clank, the clangor, and the sound 
 Of rattling rollers in their rapid round; 
 The whizzing belt, the sharp metallic jar, 
 Like clashing spears in fierce chivalric war ; 
 The whispering birth of myriad flying leaves, 
 Gathered, anon, in countless motley sheaves, 
 Then scattered far, as on the winged wind, 
 The mortal nurture of th immortal mind ! 
 
 I m fond of books ; t is pleasant to behold 
 In various apparel, new and old, 
 
THE PRESS. 169 
 
 The quaint array of well-adjusted tomes 
 That grace the mantels of our rural homes ; 
 The Bible, Bunyan, Baxter, and a score 
 Of colder lights, from Hume to Hannah More; 
 Ripe with great thoughts and histories, or full 
 Of pious homilies, devout and dull. 
 Nor do I scorn those half-forgotten books 
 That lie neglected in obscurer nooks 
 Where poets mould, and critic-spiders spin 
 Their flimsy lines to mock the lines within ! 
 For here the curious questioner may find 
 The pregnant hint that in some ampler mind 
 Grew to a thought, and honors now the page 
 That beams the brightest on the present age. 
 
 I love vast libraries ; revere the fame 
 
 Of all the Ptolemies ; and each other name, 
 
 JEmilius, Augustus, Crassus Caesar, all 
 
 The old collectors, whether great or small, 
 
 Who helped the cause of learning to advance, 
 
 Trajan and Bodley, Charles the Wise of France, 
 
 Kings, nobles, knights, who, anxious of renown 
 
 Beyond the fame of garter, spur, or crown, 
 
170 THE PRESS. 
 
 And wisely provident against decay, 
 
 (Since parchment lives while marble melts away,) 
 
 Reared to their honor literary domes, 
 
 And grew immortal in immortal tomes ! 
 
 Grand are the pyramids, although the stones 
 Are but the graves of rotten human bones 
 That bear, alas, nor name, nor crest, nor date 
 To show the world their former regal state. 
 Compared with these how noble and sublime 
 The garnered excellence of every clime 
 Reared in vast Pantheons, and finely wrought 
 From sill to cap stone of immortal thought ! 
 
 Here, e en the sturdy democrat may find, 
 Nor scorn their rank, the nobles of the mind; 
 While kings may learn, nor blush at being shown. 
 How Learning s patents abrogate their own. 
 A goodly company and fair to see; 
 Royal plebeians ; earls of low degree ; 
 Beggars whose wealth enriches every clime ; 
 Princes who scarce can boast a mental dime ; 
 Crowd here together like the quaint array 
 
THE PRESS. 171 
 
 Of jostling neighbors on a market day. 
 Homer and Milton can we call them blind ? 
 Of godlike sight, the vision of the mind; 
 Shakespeare, who calmly looked creation through, 
 " Exhausted worlds and then imagined new ; " 
 Plato the sage, so thoughtful and serene, 
 He seems a prophet by his heavenly mien ; 
 Shrewd Socrates, whose philosophic power 
 Xantippe proved in many a trying hour ; 
 And Aristophanes, whose humor run 
 In vain endeavor to be-" cloud " the sun ; 2 
 Majestic ^Eschylus, whose glowing page 
 Holds half the grandeur of the Athenian stage ; 
 Pindar, whose odes, replete with heavenly fire, 
 Proclaim the master of the Grecian lyre ; 
 Anacreon, famed for many a luscious line 
 Devote to Venus and the god of wine. 
 
 I love vast libraries ; yet there is a doubt 
 If one be better with them or without, 
 Unless he use them wisely, and, indeed, 
 Knows the high art of what and how to read ; 
 At Learning s fountain it is sweet to drink, 
 
172 THE PRESS. 
 
 But tis a nobler privilege to think; 
 And oft, from books apart, the thirsting mind 
 May make the nectar which it cannot find. 
 T is well to borrow from the good and great ; 
 T is wise to learn ; t is godlike to create ! 
 
 There is a story which my purpose suits; 
 Tis told by Bichter of the author Wuz 
 A poor lone scholar who, in urgent need 
 (Or so he thought) of learned books to read, 
 Wept o er his poverty, lamenting sore, 
 (The while a catalogue he pondered o er,) 
 Of all the charming works that met his eye, 
 Not one, alas ! his meagre purse could buy. 
 While musing thus, his racked invention brought 
 To weeping Wuz for once a lucky thought : 
 " Eureka ! " cried the scholar, with a roar, 
 As Archimedes shouted once before, 
 " I have it ! True, my purse is rather scant, 
 But then this catalogue shows what I want, 
 And so who cares for poverty or pelf ? 
 I 11 take my pen and write the books myself ! " 
 
THE PRESS. 173 
 
 Where be our authors now ? The noble band 
 Dwindles apace from off the famished land. 
 Scarce a round dozen, at the best, remain 
 Of all who once, among the author-train, 
 Wrote books like scholars ; nor esteemed it hard. 
 Genius like Virtue was its own reward. 
 
 O gentle Irving ! thou whom every grace 
 Of wit and learning gave the highest place 
 In the proud synod of the old regime, 
 In all thy dreaming, didst thou ever dream 
 To see thy craft a mere mechanic art, 
 The servile minion of the bookish mart ? 
 When authorship should be the merest trade, 
 And men make books as hats and boots are made? 
 Didst ever dream to see the wondrous day 
 When the vexed press should spawn the vast array 
 Of trashy tomes that on the public burst, 
 So fast, they print the "Tenth Edition" first? 
 Thou hast not read them. God forbid! It racks 
 One s brains enough to see their brazen backs. 
 Yet thou wilt smile, I know, when thou art told 
 That with each book the buyer too is " sold " ; 
 
174 THE PRESS. 
 
 That soon the puffing art shall all be vain, 
 And sense and reason rule the town again. 
 
 Sweet to the traveller is the urchin s chimes, 
 Proclaiming, " Ere s your Erald, Tribune, Times ! " 
 Those lively records of the passing day, 
 That catch the echo, ere it dies away, 
 Of battle, bravery, sudden death, and all 
 That human minds can startle or appall ; 
 Marriage and murder ; things of different name, 
 Alas ! that oft the two should be the same ! 
 Letters describing merry rural scenes ; 
 Ship-news, and, often, news for the Marines ; 
 Fortune s bright favors, and Misfortune s shocks ; 
 The fall of Hungary and the fall of stocks; 
 The important page that tells the thrilling tale 
 How Empires rise, and " Red Republics " fail ; 
 How England s lion, loitering in his lair, 
 Essays in vain to fright the Russian bear ; 
 How France, bemoaning the expensive war, 
 Would give her " Louis," to save her louis-d or ; 
 While the poor Turk, whom hapless luck attends, 
 Cries, " Gracious Allah ! save me from my friends ! " 
 
THE PRESS. 175 
 
 I have a neighbor, of eccentric views, 
 
 Who has a mortal horror of the news ; 
 
 As lessons are to boys, when long and hard ; 
 
 Spiders, to ladies ; censure, to a bard ; 
 
 To losers, bets ; to holders, railway stock ; 
 
 Lectures to husbands, after ten o clock ; 
 
 Bacon to Hebrews, or to Quakers, war ; 
 
 Squalls to a sailor, or a bachelor ; 
 
 To Satan prayer-books, or to Islam, wine, 
 
 So are " the papers " to this friend of mine. 
 
 You ve but to ask him, in the common way, 
 
 The usual question, and to your dismay, 
 
 He 11 pour, remorseless, on your tingling ear, 
 
 Such streams of satire as you 11 quake to hear. 
 
 " The News ? Thank Heaven ! I in not the man 
 
 to know, 
 
 I do not take the papers ; you can go, 
 If you possess the patience and the pelf, 
 And read the lying journals for yourself; 
 I hate, despise, detest, abhor them all, 
 Hebdomadal, diurnal, great, and small. 
 The News, indeed ! pray do you call it news 
 When shallow noddles publish shallow views ? 
 
176 THE PRESS. 
 
 Pray, is it news that turnips should be bred 
 As large and hollow as the owner s head ? 
 News, that a clerk should rob his master s hoard, 
 Whose meagre salary scarcely pays his board ? 
 News, that two knaves, their spurious friendship o er, 
 Should tell the truths which they concealed before? 
 News, that a maniac, weary of his life, 
 Should end his sorrows with a rope or knife? 
 News, that a wife should violate the vows 
 That bind her, loveless, to a tyrant spouse ? 
 News, that a daughter cheats paternal rule, 
 And weds a scoundrel to escape a fool ? 
 The news, indeed ! Such matters are as old 
 As sin and folly, rust and must and mould ; 
 Nor fit to publish even when, in sooth, 
 By merest chance the papers tell the truth!" 
 
 So raves my friend, a worthy man enough, 
 But in his utterance rather rude and rough ; 
 Fond of extremes, and so exceeding strong, 
 E en in the right he s often in the wrong. 
 One of those people whom you may have seen, 
 (You know them always by their nervous mien,) 
 
THE PRESS. 177 
 
 Who when they go a-fishing in the well 
 Where Truth, the angel, is supposed to dwell, 
 So very roughly knock the nymph about, 
 She kicks the bucket ere she a fairly out ! 
 Yet, if they would, the noble lords of print. 
 E en from my friend, might take a wholesome hint. 
 
 O for a pen with Hogarth s genius rife 
 To paint the scenes of Editorial life. 
 The tale, I know, is rather trite and old, 
 And yet, perchance, it may be freshly told, 
 As some plain dish, a simple roast or stew, 
 Takes a new flavor in a French ragout. 
 
 SCENE a third story in a dismal court, 
 Where weary printers just at eight resort ; 
 A dingy door that with a rattle shuts; 
 Heaps of "Exchanges," much adorned with "cuts;" 
 Pens, paste, and paper on the table strewed; 
 Books, to be read when they have been reviewed ; 
 Pamphlets and tracts so very dull indeed 
 That only they who wrote them e er will read; 
 Nine letters, touching themes of every sort, 
 
 12 
 
178 THE PRESS. 
 
 And one with money just a shilling short 
 Lie scattered round upon a common level. 
 PERSONS the Editor ; enter, now, the Devil : 
 " Please, Sir, since this ere article was wrote, 
 There a later news perhaps you d like to quote : 
 " The allies storming with prodigious force, 
 Se-fozs-to-pol is down ! " " Set it up, of course." 
 " And Sir, that murder s done there s only left 
 One larceny." " Pray don t omit the theft." 
 " And Sir, about the mob the matter s fat " 
 " The mob ? that s wrong pray just distribute 
 
 that." 
 
 " And here s an article has come to hand, 
 A reg lar, rig nal package " " Let that stand ! " 
 Exit the imp of Faust, and enter now 
 A fierce subscriber with a scowling brow ; 
 " Sir, curse your paper ! send the thing to " 
 
 Well, 
 
 The place he names were impolite to tell; 
 Enough to know the hero of the Press 
 Cries, " Thomas, change the gentleman s address ! 
 We 11 send the paper, if the post will let it, 
 Where the subscriber will be sure to get it ! " 
 
THE PRESS. 179 
 
 Who would not be an Editor ? To write 
 The magic " we " of such enormous might ; 
 To be so great beyond the common span 
 It takes the plural to express the man ; 
 And yet, alas, it happens oftentimes 
 A unit serves to number all his dimes ! 
 
 But don t despise him; there may chance to be 
 An earthquake lurking in his simple " we ! " 
 
 In the close precincts of a dusty room 
 That owes few losses to the lazy broom, 
 There sits the man ; you do not know his name, 
 Brown, Jones, or Johnson it is all the same 
 Scribbling away at what perchance may seem 
 An idler s musing, or a dreamer s dream ; 
 His pen runs rambling, like a straying steed ; 
 The "we" he writes seems very "wee" indeed; 
 But mark the change ; behold the wondrous power 
 Wrought by the Press in one eventful hour ; 
 To-night, t is harmless as a maiden s rhymes ; 
 To-morrow, thunder in the London Times! 
 The ministry dissolves that held for years; 
 Her Grace, the Duchess, is dissolved in tears ; 
 
180 THE PRESS. 
 
 The Rothschilds quail ; the church, the army, 
 
 quakes ; 
 
 The very kingdom to its centre shakes; 
 The Corn Laws fall ; the price of bread comes 
 
 down 
 Thanks to the "we" of Johnson, Jones, or Brown! 
 
 Firm in the right, the daily Press should be 
 The tyrant s foe, the champion of the free; 
 Faithful and constant to its sacred trust ; 
 Calm in its utterance ; in its judgments, just ; 
 Wise in its teaching ; uncorrupt, and strong 
 To speed the right, and to denounce the wrong. 
 Long may it be ere candor must confess 
 On Freedom s shores a weak and venal Press. 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 NOTE 1, Page 166. 
 " Came at a bound upon the wondering earth. 111 
 
 It is a notable fact, as one may see by a glance at 
 the early specimens of printing, that typography was at 
 the very first so excellent as to leave little room for im 
 provement. With equal truth and felicity it has been 
 called, " Ars simul inventa atfjue perfecta." 
 
 NOTE 2, Page 171. 
 
 " Aristophanes, whose humor run 
 In vain endeavor to be- 1 cloud the SM." 
 
 An allusion to the comedy of " The Clouds," written 
 in ridicule of Socrates. 
 
YE PEDAGOGUE, 
 
 A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD. 
 UY JOHN Q. SAXK. 
 
 Righte learned is ye Pedagogue, 
 Fulle apt to reade and spelle; 
 
 And eke to teache ye ]>art< of speeche, 
 And strap ye urchins welle. 
 
 - t is meete to soake ye feete, 
 Ye ailinge heade to mende ; 
 
 V<- y.iunk.-r - ]-ut to stimulate, 
 IK- beat* ye other ende! 
 
 e lordlie is ye Pedagogue 
 A- any turban d Turke ; 
 For welle to rule ye District Schoole 
 It is no idle worke. 
 
 For oft Rebellion lurketh there 
 
 In breaste of secret*- : 
 Of malice fulle, in waite to pulle 
 
 Ye Pedagogue his nose ! 
 
 Sometimes he heares, with trembling feares, 
 
 < M ye ungodlie rogue 
 On mlschieffe bent, with felle intent 
 
 To licke ye Pedagogue ! 
 
 And if ye Pedagogue be smalle, 
 When to ye battell led, 
 
 h a pliirhte, God sende him mighte, 
 To break e ye rogue his he; 
 
 .fter day**, fur little paye, 
 II u-aeheth what he can, 
 And bears ye yoke, to please ye folke, 
 And ye Committee-man. 
 
 Ah ! many crosses hath he borne, 
 
 And many trials founde, 
 Y. while he trudged ye district through, 
 
 And boarded rounde and rounde ! 
 
 Ah ! many a steake hath he devoured, 
 
 That, by ye taste and sighte, 
 W - in disdaine, twas very plaine, 
 
 Of Day his patent righte ! 
 
 Fulle solemn is ye Pedagogue, 
 
 Amonge ye noisy churls; 
 Yet other while he hath a smile 
 
 To give ye handsome girls ! 
 
 And one ye fayrest mayde of all 
 
 To cheere \\\< wayninge life, 
 Shall he, when Springe ye tlowers shall bring, 
 
 Ye Pedagogue his wife! 
 
0^=* Any books in this list will be sent free of postage, on receipt 
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