In cherry trees the robins sang
Their sweetest carol to your ear,
And shouts of merry children rang
Out on the dewy atmosphere,
But to my heart there came a pang
That my salute you did not hear.
I envied then the favored breeze
That dallied with your flowing hair,
Begrudged the songsters in the trees
And longed to be a flow'ret fair—
Some favorite blossom like heartease—
Within your miniature parterre.
O heart, that finds such ample room
Within thy confines broad and true,
For song and sunshine and perfume
And all benign impulses—go,
I pray thee, dissipate my gloom—
And take in thy petitioner too!
"Honest John."
He was a man whose lot was cast,
As some might think, in lines severe;
In humble toil whose life was passed
From week to week, from year to year;
And yet, by wife and children blessed,
He labored on with cheerful zest.
As one revered and set apart,
A quaint, unusual name he bore
That well became the frugal heart;
While plain habiliments he wore
Without a tremor or a chill
At thought of some uncanceled bill.
A king might not disdain to wear
The title so appropriate
To one who never sought to share
Exalted station 'mong the great,
Nor cared if on the scroll of fame
Were never traced his worthy name.
As bound by honor's righteous law
In strictest rectitude he wrought—
The man who calmly, clearly saw
His duty, and who dallied not—
To garner life's necessities
For those whose comfort heightened his.