A Leaf from the Old Forest

by John D. Cossar

Waited idly for her orders.
Now she calls for an attendant,
And doth give him orders thuswise:
“‘Not at home’ shall be the answer
Unto all who this day seek me,
Save unto his highness Fashion;
Ye shall give to him admission.”
State obeisance marks his exit,
Ready for a plumper falsehood,
Spoken to his lady’s order.
Soon a knock, which sounds familiar.
Lo! it is the dunning trader,
Who is sorely run to hold him
From the stream of dangerous rumours;
But the answer thus is told him—
“Not at home, my lady is not.”
So the tradesman from her doorway,
Empty-handed, homeward turns,
Thinks not such a ready answer
Is an utter fabrication.
Sero, from his seat beholding,
Saw this lounging lump of matter,
Pufféd up in pomp and splendor.
He was moved to indignation,
And said, in a scornful manner,
“O blinded fool! O filthy pomp!

Glory ye in dust and shadows?
See ye not the wild delusions,
Which ye cherish so and fondle,
Through the darkness they are set in?”
Said he to attendants by him,
“Go ye to that stately chamber
Where this pompous woman sitteth;
Pass the trader in the doorway
And the ready story-teller,
Enter and lay hold upon her;
Take the lusty look she weareth,
Cast it to the winds that ramble,
Racing through the hills and mountains;
Take her great imaginations,
Sift them in the seive of honor—
Lo! they are as dross and ashes,
And her pomps and giddy grandeur
Scatter and disperse them likewise.”
So went Sero’s servants forward,
Did as had their chief commanded,
Smote this pompous woman sorely—
With the rod of sickness smote her;
And the ruddy color left her,
And those lofty airs and manners;
Sickness and a ghastly pallor
Came upon her limbs and forehead,

And she hourly sank and wasted
Till a spectre she resembled.
Then the spirit fled the body,
And was carried unto Sero;
Sero through the wicket passed it
To the pit of Long Damnation.
What is now this pompous woman,
And her great imagination?
These have vanished like a shadow,
As a myth or phantom figure;
And that body, once so lusty,
Is a mouldering lump of matter,
Corruptible, and vile, and filthy.

III.

In a miserable dwelling
Sat a miserable old man
Mid a heap of hoarded treasures,
Buried in the walls and burrows;
And it was his constant idol,
And his brain was ever scheming
How he might augment the numbers.
Oft he turned the treasure over,
Counting fondly and recounting;
And he joyed to hear the jingle
Of the yellow coins he counted.

Threescore years had been devoted,
Scraping of this gain together.
He had fed on scanty portion,
Grudging sorely every morsel;
And had clothed himself in raiments
Which a beggar scarce would stand in.
He had never fed the hungry,
And had never clothed the naked,
That he might increase his riches.
Sero in this hovel saw him
Bending o’er his golden treasures;
And he laughed derisive laughter,
And sarcastic was his manner,
As his servants he commanded
To the miser’s presence, saying,
“Lo! our princely Sero wisteth
Whence are all these hoarded riches,—
If in scruple they were gathered.
If ye long to take them with you
When you leave this land of Weemus
For the lands of the hereafter;
If ye think to buy a passport
To the land of Blisses with them,
Ye are sadly much mistaken.
This we deem as dross and worthless.
Ye can never enter thereto

Bearing such a burden with you.
Ye must feed the hungry with it,
And must clothe the naked wanderer,
And employ it as a talent
To be used for wiser purpose
Than to hoard in walls and burrows,
If ye long to be admitted
To the tranquil land of Blisses.”
But the old man would not listen
To the words of wisdom spoken;
He was so engrossed in counting,
And in adding to his riches.
So the servant raised his weapon,
Sorely therewith smote the miser,—
With destruction did he smite him,—
That he fell a lifeless clay-heap
Down among the hoarded moneys;
And his spirit was removéd
Unto Sero, and he opened
Wide the wicket on his left hand,
And it passed into the darkness,
To the pit of gloom and terrors.
Then the door was rudely opened
Of this miserable dwelling
By the people claiming kinship;
And they scrambled for the riches,

And in many quarrels sought them,
Tending to the disuniting
Of the sacred bonds of friendship;
Brother against brother rising,
Raging in a bitter conflict.
Many, who received a portion,
Went and squandered to his ruin
All he had in lust and gambling,
Till his life was sorely broken.
When his riches had been pillaged,
Then the body of the miser
Was removéd quick and coldly,
Lowered in the grave and covered;
But of they who followed with it,
No one wept a tear of sorrow,
No one mourned for his departure;
But they gave attendance only,—
That, stern duty had commanded.
Thus the end was of the old man,
Of the miserable miser.

IV.

In a wilderness of houses
In the heart of a great city,
Full of riches, full of plenty,
And of people high and prosperous,