III.
How still—how strange—the tide is slack,
We eddy round—we drift no more.
What swell is this which sweeps us back
To where the gathering breakers roar?
About the pale unlighted land?
Can any tell if we shall stand
Safe in the morning hand in hand
Upon the steep and rock-bound shore?
COMPROMISE.
“Come, promise, dear,” I whispered low,
“That you will take my name.”
I never said I’d give it, but
They swore ’twas all the same.
They brought an action to extort
Four thousand pounds from me—
The Judge said “compromise,” and so
I had to give her three.
By my hard fate, unwary youth,
Take warning, and be wise:
Once with “come promise” you begin,
The end is compromise.
FAREWELL.
Far through the vista of receding years
I dimly catch a glimpse through falling tears,
Of faces bending o’er some pictured glory
Or—brightly list’ning to some magic story,
Told by a gifted wielder of the Pen
Whose power and pathos touch’d the hearts of men.
But when the pathos ’gan to sadden all,
A comic writer would our smiles recall:
And by his clever travesty and fable
Excite a merry laughter round the table.
Then some philosopher with voice sonorous
Would read an essay—not too long, to bore us.
The papers read, around the board we press’d,
To scan the pictures of each artist-guest.
Then to discussion of a slight repast
Of fish and rolls, and velvet cream we’d haste,
Ere Pens and Pencils all would speed away,
To meet again some happy future day.
That day, alas! has pass’d, the night has come,
And witty Pens and Pencils all are dumb.