Hands gloved—to comply with the law;
Gloves hard—to comply with the crowd;
Fists savage as murder could draw;
Cheers heavy and fervent and loud.
Stern hisses, and shoutings of "Woman!"
When either too tender they found;
Tremendous applause when a foeman
Dropped, more than half dead, on the ground.
'Twas the soul's blackest hell-woven fibre,
All thrilling intensely and fast;
The curse of the Tagus and Tiber
Arrived in New York Bay at last!
And victor and vanquished, I learn,
Came off with more glittering spoil
Than teacher or preacher could earn
In years of the hardest of toil.
A spectacle pleasing and bright,
Full many good people delighting—
So many good men love a fight,
When somebody else does the fighting!
And "'tis shameful!" we mildly agree,
And shout our complainings afar;
But the facts are no worse than are we:
They show to us just what we are!
VIRTUE.
[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]
October 1, 18—.
Wind in the south-west; weather fit to stay;
A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day—
When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at you
Through hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.
My wife said, as we talked of it together,
It seemed as if some of our old farm weather
Had got tired of the sober hills of brown,
Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!