SIR COPP.
A POEM FOR THE TIMES,
In Six Cantos.
By THOMAS CLARKE,
Author of “A Day in May,” “Donna Rosa,” “The Silent Village,”
“Life in the West,” &c.
“Truth—the highest poetry and the bitterest satire.”—The Author.
“Thus have they masked Hypocrisy,
And dubbed her ‘Young Democracy.’”—Sir Copp., Canto VI.
SIXTH THOUSAND.
CHICAGO:
GEO. W. CLARKE, PUBLISHER
1867.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865,
By THOS. CLARKE & CO.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Northern District of Illinois.
PREFACE.
The object of this Poem is two-fold; first, to photograph a phase of human depravity incredible, had we not witnessed it; and to hand down its subjects to eternal infamy: and, secondly, to paint the beauty and power of goodness and loyalty in the sacred cause of God and of Country. “Sir Copp” represents the element of mean servility exhibited in those whom duty called in vain to the support of their invaded liberties; the most venomous “copperheads” being those who, under a loyal mask, betrayed their trust, starved our soldiers, robbed their widows and orphans, and, like Benedict Arnold, sold themselves to the enemy. Contrasted with this dark side of the picture the patriotism of our loyal citizens stands out in bold relief. Our army, like a torrent, sweeps away the strongholds of the rebels and restores peace and happiness to the nation. But this glimpse of light is clouded by the murder of Mr. Lincoln, and, in “Abel Misraim,” the people bewail the irreparable loss of their martyred chief. A digression on certain British poets, and a severe criticism on “Enoch Arden,” are followed by a discussion demonstrating the impossibility of sustaining liberty, unless founded on the basis of popular virtue and intelligence; and that no man, whatever be his color, is entitled to the privileges, unless he be prepared to discharge the duties of a citizen. The abuse of this principle caused all our troubles in the past, and, unless a speedy and a radical reform shall be effected, we can expect nothing better for the future.
“Sir Copp,” having undergone a severe physical and moral dissection, is finally introduced into hell, whence Satan, unwilling to entertain him, sends him back to earth to be punished there according to his deserts.
This is the first of a series of works, chiefly on the war, by the same author, which will be issued in due course, if “home production” shall receive here, at the West, a sufficient patronage to justify the undertaking.
It is proposed, also, to republish here, from the London editions, the most popular of the author’s published works, to which the opinions of the best English critics will be appended, according to him a high rank amongst the first poets of our day.
Perhaps it may not be deemed out of place to give here a few brief extracts from those criticisms:
The London Athenæum says: “Mr. Clarke is highly successful in his management of blank verse, and the following passage from his “Day in May,” is worthy of praise for the happy arrangement of its cadences, and the pure and natural feelings contained in it.” [Here follows a quotation of over 40 lines.]
The London Spectator speaks of the same poem in the highest terms; so do the Court Journal, Indian Review, Morning Post, &c.
Blackwood says of “Donna Rosa,” that “it cannot be surpassed for elegance of style and correctness of metre.” Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine coincides, and Bell’s Messenger says: “This is the best and most musical poem which the present season has produced.”
Much more might be quoted, had we space. The above must suffice for the present.
With regard to this new poem, “Sir Copp,” the author relies entirely on the good sense and judgment of the people of the Great West, for an impartial decision of its claims to public favor; and he will rest satisfied with that decision, whatever it may be; for he cannot but believe, that those who have been able to appreciate the best political, military and legal talent in the country, will also be able to discriminate, and reward, literary merit, when it is fairly and candidly presented for their consideration.
Chicago, Illinois.
DEDICATION
TO THE
PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.
Great Sov’reign, mightier far than king,
Accept this off’ring which I bring.
Thy humble servant would propose
A novel theme in rhyming prose;
Or, since my Muse flanks the sublime,
Then be it named prosaic rhyme.
No matter, if the thing shall please,
Concerning names I feel at ease.
INVOCATION TO THE MUSE.
Muse, if you ever condescend
To aid, in time of need, a friend,
If ever I have sung a lay
That charmed you on a happier day;
If, with the fat of spitted priests,
I have enriched your genial feasts;
Or politician’s sav’riest part,
Has warmed the “cockles” of your heart:
Oh, grant me, now, this precious boon,
(Again I may not ask you soon,)
May I before the lieges spread
The merits of the Copperhead!
It is, indeed, a boon you ask,
And mine will be an arduous task:
The reptile’s name is legion;
He every color can put on;
He is a blackleg all complete,
The people to delude and cheat;
Pretends to be their faithful hack,
Yet claps a saddle on their back
And rides them roughshod through the mire,
Not suffering them to lag or tire,
But whips and spurs the patient jade,
Which never can his yoke evade,
Until, from high official chair
He sees the gaping creatures stare
Upon the riches he has fobbed
From those he so adroitly robbed;
Or in the Senate or the House,
He sits with those who there carouse
At your expense, and laughs to scorn
The slaves who for his use were born.
But though the task is hard, yet still,
I owe you much for your good will;
Then come, together let us wing
Our upward flight, and boldly sing
The strains which from my lips shall flow,
I love to pay whate’er I owe.