Moral
When proud Ambition seeks to rise
From its accustomed ways;
Oft jealousies will jeer and peck,
As did the haughty jays.
* * *
To all who chance to read this tale,
Its simple warning speaks,—
“Ye who aspire to sphere’s aloft—
Beware of vicious beaks!”
THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER
(Lines on a very old house situated on the west shore of the Nezinscot river, and some distance from any other dwelling.)
On the bank of Old Nezinscot,
Where the sparkling waters flow
Down this sea-ward course, as freely
As the roving winds that blow,
Stands a cottage by the river—
(Built upon the side-hill plan;—
Think it was a blacksmith built it
Else it was a crazy man!
Must have been an awful ship wreck
Once, upon Nezinscot’s waves;
When a score or more of sailors
Went down to their watery graves—
All except old Robinson Crusoe,
Guess he landed on a scow;
And this fact seems most emphatic
For man “Friday” lives there now!
Probably, from out the wreckage
They contrived to save their goods,—
Then, with jack-knife and a hatchet
Built this cottage in the woods—
Must have been some ship-wreck’d sailor
By the angry tempest tossed—
Or an aeronaut that landed
Who with his balloon was lost.
Doubtless, then, this lonely exile
Fought the wild-cat and the bear—
Else he’d not have pitched his cabin
Forty miles from any where—
Far away from habitation—
Neither do we often find
Houses that are built like this one
With the front door on behind!)
Though in this salubrious climate
Often lurks the river fogs;—
Yet the sweet, halcyon chorus
Of the whip-poor-wills and frogs
When the twilight shadows gather
And the sun sinks in the west—
Calms and sooths the fever’d pillow,
Lulls the weary into rest.
Then all hail—all hail to Crusoe
(Or what ever was his name)
Who discovered this fair haven,
And in reverence we’ll proclaim
That to him who built this cottage
We should ever give our thanks
For the hours we’ve spent in pleasure
On Nezinscot’s mossy banks!
THE POET TO THE ARTIST
(To E. A. M.)
You painted a beautiful picture
And sent it a gift to me;
So I will write you a poem,—
But what shall the poem be?
Your picture, like beautiful sunset
So brilliant, will ever be praised,—
But my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
Your picture seemed “Tidings of Gladness,”
—As the beautiful rainbow will cast
Its bright, glowing tints on the billows
Of clouds when the tempest is past.
Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean
Is the gratitude felt.—for your gift
Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder
When a sunbeam shines bright thro’ the rift.
Your picture was eagerly welcomed,
—As the first rosy tints of the dawn
Are welcomed by vigilant watchers
When the curtains of Night are withdrawn.
—As the rose hails the dew of the evening
When parched by the heat of the sun;
—As the hand, that with toil has grown weary
Welcomes rest when the day’s work is done—
—So thus, for your picture a welcome
Most fervent will e’er be secure
But my poem—Ah! what of my poem?
—There can scarcely be aught to endure.
Tho’ your picture’s like beauteous landscape
That by Artists will ever be praised;
—Yet my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
THE TRAMP’S STORY
Any work for me? No? I am sorry—
For I’m weary, and hungry and cold;
You’re wishing to hear my life’s story?
’Tis the first time it ever was told.
Yes, friend, I will tell you. A sorrow
Extinguished the flame from life’s lamp;
Which made me a wanderer—an outcast—
And why I am now called—a tramp.
Well friend, I once was as happy
As that little boy over there,—
My cheeks were as rosy and chubby,
And my soft, golden curls just as fair.
But I then knew the care of a mother—
A mother as noble and good
As God ever gave to a fellow,
And she did just the best that she could,
To show me the path straight and narrow,
And I never once wanted to stray
Away from her side, where she taught me
Each morning, and evening, to pray.
At length, when I attained manhood,
The crowning joy came to my life;
And never was husband more happy
Than I, with my sweet little wife.
And she loved me so fondly and truly,
It made all my toil seem like play;
I was working for her, and for baby—
Baby Charlie I call him alway.
Well, I got a snug home for my loved ones.
And a good sum of money to spare;
’Twould have been like the Garden of Eden
Had the Serpent not gained entrance there.
But I had a dear friend—Jim Daley,
The chum of my boyhood and youth;
And true, like a brother I loved him—
For I thought him the ideal of Truth.
At school we were always together,
E’er shared with each other our joy;
And only God knows how I loved him—
This handsome, and proud, winsome boy.
And I trusted him, friend, I trusted him
With all that was sacred and dear
To my heart, Yes, I trusted him fully—
Nor dreamed I could have aught to fear.
But one day he complained of reverses—
Said his money just then was not free—
There were bills he must pay on the morrow—
And he wanted to borrow of me.
So I loaned him all of the money
I had saved for some chance rainy day,—
And in less than a month I was homeless—
My family were kidnapped away!
What inducement he tendered, I know not,
Or whether ’twas mesmeric power
Which lured my poor, true-hearted girlie
From me and our beautiful bower.
Were he here now, ah, could I forgive him—
Would duty, and right, say I must?
Could I extend the hand-grasp of friendship
To him who has broken that trust?
I can only pray God to forgive him—
And me. For with memory’s stamp
Comes the knowledge of why I am needy—
And why people call me—a tramp.
I sold our dear cot mid the roses,
And stealthily set out to trace
The whereabouts of my dear loved ones,
And I wandered from place to place
At last came the sorrowful tidings
Of a ship going down in a gale,—
Their names, on the list of the lost ones!
And this is the end of the tale.
From my great sorrow then I sought refuge,
And I drifted from east to the west;
In my young days I worked hard and steady,
In every place doing my best.
But now there ’s no work,—I’m heart broken.—
Alone, in the cold and the damp,—
To my poor heart it seems—save in Heaven
There’s no room for the poor, aged tramp.
’TIS EASY TO GET MISTAKEN
In a cozy cot, mid bloom and leaf,
There dwelt a woman very deaf,—
If anything special she wished to hear
She’d put a trumpet to her ear.
Without the instrument, she could at best
But hear some—and guess the rest.
One day she laid it on a chair—
Got up, and left it lying there—
And went to work sweeping the floor
Just as a peddler reached the door.
And to the man it did occur
That he might sell some goods to her.
“Good morning Marm, fine day,” quoth he—
“I thought I’d just call, and see”—
“Just come from sea! is that what ye say?
Well, and who are ye any way?”
“Oh, pray excuse me marm! I said—
I simply called to sell some thread”—
“Swell on the head? well there I vow—
What you been up to any how?”
“Beg pardon marm!”—at her he stared,
“But is your hearing not impared?”
“My herrings pared? Yes, scraped off the scales
And then cut off the heads and tails!”
The peddler’s voice grew loud and louder:—
“Say marm! don’t you want to buy some powder?
Here is one dozen shell hair pins”—
“What! want to sell a pair of twins?
Why man, you make a body laugh,
I’d rather buy a Jersey calf—
Me! buy them twins!”—“Madam, your wrong!
Have been mistaken all along!”—
“Didn’t take ’em along? it’s just as well,
For twins ain’t very good to sell.”
“Excuse me marm—but my belief
Is that you must be a little deaf!”
“A little beef?—for dinner—hey?
Beef and herrings did you say?”
“I didn’t say so!” he loudly roar’d—
But his voice took wing and upward soar’d.
“Don’t worry—you won’t have to wait,
I’ll get your dinner before ’tis late.”
“Don’t want no dinner!” he yelled in her ear,—
“Gal darn ye! can’t I make ye hear?”
“Hain’t got no beer for you,” said she,
“You needn’t get mad and swear at me!”
“Beg pardon!” he yelled with voice immense,
“But I certainly mean’t you no offence”—
“Fence? you’ll find out if there’s a fence or not
If you don’t get out—now! on the spot!
All you know is to make comments—
Great pile you know about our fence!”
“To sell you something was my plan—
Here Madam! don’t you want a fan?”
“Me want a man! how could you guess?
Of course my answer must be yes.
Me! want a man! what’s that I hear?”
And she put the trumpet to her ear.
“Don’t shoot! don’t shoot!” the peddler said,
And instantly turned on his heel and fled.
SONG OF A SUFFRAGETTE
With apologies to A. P. S.
This world would be happy, and lovely indeed,
If the men were banished, of them there’s no need;
Now the ambitious women must fight for their due—
With the pesky men-folks we’ll have no more to do!