Outcast, Desperado, Fiend, Knave; all of these
And more. But call him whatever you please,
I cannot forget
He's a mortal man yet:
That he once was a babe, and was hushed into rest,
And fondled and pressed, to a woman's warm breast.
Was sung to, and rocked,
And when he first walked
With his weak little feet, he was petted, and told
He was "mamma's own pet, worth his whole weight in gold."
And this is the end
Of a God-given life. Just think of it, friend!
Hark! hear you that chime? 'Tis the clock striking ten.
The dread weight falls down, with a sound like "Amen."
Does murder pay murder? do two wrongs make a right?
Oh, that horrible sight!
I am shut in my room, and have covered my face,
But the dread scene has followed me into this place.
I see that strange thing,
Like a clock pendulum swing
To and fro, in the air, back and forth, to and fro.
One moment ago
'Twas a man, in God's image! now hide it, kind grave.
What a terrible end, to the life that God gave.
[WHEN I AM DEAD.]
When I am dead, if some chastened one,
Seeing the "item," or hearing it said
That my play is over and my part done,
And I lie asleep in my narrow bed--
If I could know that some soul would say,
Speaking aloud or silently,
"In the heat and the burden of the day,
She gave a refreshing draught to me;"
Or, "When I was lying nigh unto death
She nursed me to life and to strength again,
And when I labored and struggled for breath
She smoothed and quieted down my pain;"
Or, "When I was groping in grief and doubt,
Lost, and turned from the light o' the day,
Her hand reached me and helped me out
And led me up to the better way;"
Or, "When I was hated and shunned by all,
Bowing under my sin and my shame,
She, once in passing me by, let fall
Words of pity and hope, that came
Into my heart like a blessed calm
Over the waves of the stormy sea,
Words of comfort, like oil and balm,
She spake, and the desert blossomed for me;"
Better, by far, than a marble tomb--
Than a monument towering over my head
(What shall I care, in my quiet room,
For headboard or footboard when I am dead?);
Better than glory, or honors, or fame
(Though I am striving for those to-day),
To know that some heart would cherish my name
And think of me kindly, with blessings, alway.
[IN MEMORY OF MISS JENNIE BLANCHARD.]
Across the sodden field we gaze,
To woodlands, painted gold and brown;
To hills that hide in purple haze,
And proudly wear the Autumn's crown.
Oh, lavish Autumn! fair, we know,
And yet we cannot deem her so.
The blossoms had their little day;
The grasses, and the green-hung trees.
They lived, grew old, and passed away.
And yet, not satisfied with these,
The cruel Autumn could not pass
Without this last fell stroke. Alas!