“The idiot pluck with which he strove
To shield his hearth with freehold fence,
And rather wear the homely wove
Than rig to suit our lofty sense.
“His rooted stand and settled haze
The foot he plants ’gainst sudden New,
Whose golden tilth and reap of grace
Holds furrowed snug the only True.
“His crafty shield; those mealy snares
For simple lambs. His wolfish doubt,
When, stung and wrung with sore his cares,
They flocked to help friend Hodges out—
“And forced from faith his better word,
And warped his truth with keen despair,
That the large rights for which he chored
Should never greet a lineal heir.
“But all his throb and bitter sweat,
His blood paid down for desert lands,
Should snap its lease, be lightly set
A hawker’s trust in stranger hands—
“And how for this he bled and drove,
Cribbed-in this band of saintly Peace;
Played wary host to all their trove,
Made yare go ’round the golden fleece—
“And worst—those sons of loot, his bossy crew!
Who, fearing thieves, would chance no charm,
But gag the spoiler ’fore he grew
To oust their rights with legal arm.
“All this: shocks! ’Twere worth a bloody nose:
To size him up, then pare him down,
Till, as to cure the treatment grows,
We snug him hale within the Crown.
“A gem whose shine and proper place
And dapper fit to lofty plan
He’ll soon see clear thro’ his amaze,
With contrite heart—the leal man.
“And Square-toes’ gait at last be set;
With social wash to status brought
His lowly breed and rustic sweat:
O, God of Thrift! What happy thought!”
* * * * * * * *
When hard upon this longish muse,
Which, if it fail of absolute mold,
Is yet what, at a close peruse,
A muddled act does broadly hold—