TWO things there are in heaven above
And earth below—the greater, Love,
The lesser, Death—and therefor grew
Heart’s-ease and rosemary and rue
And myrrh and moly, magic plants;
These, and a common rose or two
Besprent with Indiana dew,
My wizard gathers from their haunts;
Distils the balmy, subtle juice
To make a spell of potent use;
Filters a seeming simple wine
Nectared with some drops most rare—
(How he finds the tinct or where,
Not the critics can divine!)
Whoso gives the wine his lips,
Sipping smiles, and laughing sips;
But, before he drinks it up,
Tears have trickled in the cup.
WILLIAM BAIRD OF RIDGEVILLE.
NOW who is the delightfulest
Old soldier that shakes hands with you?
The genial host, the welcome guest,
The teeming brain, the bosom true,
The soul of song and merry jest?
The prince of all good fellows, who?
“Why, William Baird of Ridgeville!”
Whenever meets the G. A. R.,
Through rain or dust he hies to town;
He gladdens the excursion car,
And, as his regiment tramps down
The gala street, you hear afar
The marching measure, “Old John Brown,”
From William Baird of Ridgeville.
Then all the casements open wide,
A thousand flags are shaken free,
The balconies on either side
Are loud with shouts of jubilee,
And thrilling maidens wave with pride
Their kerchiefs, laughing, crying: “See!
That’s William Baird of Ridgeville!”
All children feel his gracious charm,—
Of gentle birth, or sprung of churls;
From hut and mansion, street and farm,
Troop eager round him lads and girls;
The baby leaves its mother’s arm
To ride the shoulder, pull the curls
Of William Baird of Ridgeville.
The fools in flock from William fly,
Like fluttered sparrows from a hawk;
The women hover warmly nigh,
Like bees around a lily-stalk,—
Enchanted by the sparkling eye
And by the spiced and nectared talk
Of William Baird of Ridgeville.
Yet Bill is not a ladies’ man;
He consorts with “the boys”;—he jokes—
This front-faced, sturdy veteran—
With common and uncommon folks;
He’s not the least a Puritan:—
Sometimes he drinks, and daily smokes
His briar-pipe, at Ridgeville.
Wit’s gold is minted in his brain
And glitters from his lavish tongue:
The gravest deacon frowns in vain
To quench the laughter; old and young
Report the brilliant quips that rain
Like scattered pearls at random flung
By William Baird of Ridgeville.
No wight can counterfeit or steal
What unpremeditated art
Gives him to improvise, to feel,
To waken in the answering heart;
What they from learning’s pride conceal,
The Muses uninvoked impart
To William Baird of Ridgeville.