Part 4

Not for you cremating pyre, Because “it’s been your great desire To wholly shun _post mortem_ fire,” And thus to save your “bakin’.” Because you have this hope behind you, Don’t think your master will not find you, Tho’ deep in earth they have consigned you, Beneath a lying stone. When earthly things do fade from view, And all the chances you’ve run through, Then will the devil have his due, And he will claim his own.

ANSWER BY MRS. TAYLOR.

There is, we find, a class of folks Opposed to our cremation jokes: ’Twere vain for us to try to coax Them out of cinder-ation; For furnace heat they sigh at heart, They’d ape the goose or gander part, Or baked like pudding, pie, or tart, Be _dessert_ of creation.

To such we would sincerely say, Their fiery instincts should obey, We would not have our wishes weigh Against incendiaries; But let them burn or bake by rule, As suits the taste of sage or fool, Our greatest aim is to keep cool, Nor cross the Stygian ferries.

Cremators seem to pine for fire, Nor would we quench their warm desire, Though our hope is something higher, We here would mildly mention: If they their loved ones would ignite, And think a burning bier is right, Why let them take a fiery flight “Where they pave with good intention.”

ALONE.

Hers is a rayless night; No star or gleam of light Beams o’er the widow’s blight, As she sits alone. Oh! could her tears that flow, Wash out her woman’s woe, Brown every sorrow’s throe And misery’s moan.

She has a sunless sky, Sadly to sit and sigh, Her hope is but to die And end the pain; She thinks of other days When life had sunny rays, Such thoughts as nearly craze Her busy brain.

Crushed hopes crowding come, Dead joys, in a darkened home, Lost love so lately known, Make life so drear; What is there left her now? What peace has earth to show? What bliss can life bestow That once was dear?

She sits in twilight dim, Vainly awaiting him, Watching the shadows grim Go faintly past; Till night, lone and still, Veils earth, dark and chill, How kind could sorrow kill By one cold blast.

But there she sits alone, Lists for that tender tone, Lately it was her own, Fondly to hear; How all is still and cold, No ray can hope unfold, Her young heart has grown old In one short year.

Life’s early winter ’s come, Clouded her happy home, Made grief and woe her own, Heartsore and sad; Who could existence crave? Her love is in the grave; Would she die and save Her going mad!

Heart bowed in deep despair, Oh, God! hear thou her prayer; Let time her loss repair, And spring once more Smile o’er her clouded years; Give her the hope that cheers, Wipe out her widow’s tears And peace restore.

A CRITIQUE ON THE MORRIS LYCEUM.

The first on the list is President Boyce, “The head of the heap,” and the Lyceum’s choice, Whose seeming set habits in bachelor ways Is all that robs him of womanly praise.

The next that comes under my critical pen, At the president’s table sits fair Mrs. Glenn, A lady so rich in pleasing pen powers That we oftentimes wish her minutes were hours.

And then Mr. Cole, so sober and sage, Whose late recitations have been quite the rage; He, too, ’s in the market--I beg you won’t tell, For the girls will pursue him and find it a “sell.”

Now dear Mrs. Goodrich, our matron of mind, Who can be both Biddy and Lady combined; With much versatility, logic and fun, We welcome her always as “A Number one.”

In _strides_ Mr. Hollister, tall and profound, Who refuses to see when a laugh may be found; Who relishes Bennett’s rejecting Miss May, As though the stale tidings were fresh of to-day.

Then chimes the “sweet singer,” Miss Huston--Ah, me! What would the Lyceum do without thee? With her silverest tones and dreamiest look, To recite the sad “Bells” and sing the sweet “Brook.”

In _trips_ Enoch Taylor with humor and fun, As “Dundreary,” or “Paddy,” or “George Washington;” He has a strong weakness for “Widow Bedotte,” Indeed, for all widows a weakness he’s got.

See the bright star, May Donally, rise, Whose musical voice and luminous eyes Make her so brilliant in reading and song, We wish we could teach her refusing was wrong.

Boyd, the “tall barrister,” drawls out his say In his sensible, lazy, lack-a-daisical way; He declaims or debates, according to choice; He’s a bachelor, having no partner but Boyce.

Then Mrs. Thorne, whose husband is Joe, Smilingly reads, in tones soft and low, Good articles, essays, poems or prose-- She’s happy at any you choose to propose.

Now comes Col. Finch, so jolly and jocose, Who lately, I think, got slightly morose Because “Brother Watkins” fell flat on our ears, And failed to bring any spectators to tears.

Mr. Babbitt’s a name suggestive of soap, Clean records and linen, and giving a scope For a lawyer of merit, who’s modest and shy, To make him a mixture to “concentrate lye.”

Then Mrs. Jones and Coffin come in, Gentle, sweet readers as ever have been; Selected to serve in meter or prose, They recite “ready made” or sweetly compose.

Mr. Baker, who next breaks out in debate, Is a favorite here, and I think I may state Our friends will find it instructive delight Attending his lecture here, next Friday night.

Welcome Miss Fish and Miss Boyd, in their turn, Who know so much now they have little to learn; They give us at times an essay or two, Well written and read, and then they are through.

Now pretty dame Stone is a _hard_ name to puff, And to stick to the truth would be very rough; For the gents, as she reads, the author defies, And lose their ideas in the light of her eyes.

Col. Taylor, the “chronic debater,” appears, Who argues regardless of scruples or fear; Our “smiling attorney” don’t fret about sin, But espouses the cause that’s surest to win.

The sensible, cynical Simpson Glenn, Scares us and scathes us with critical pen; He’s not over pious, I’ve heard people say, But would be a Christian, were the Tempter away.

McLaughlin, why will you persistently part Your hair in the middle, thus touching the heart Of the girls of our church? I think it is wrong; For forgiveness you’ll have to sing us a song.

Now sweet Mrs. Worth, our directress and guide, Her name and her nature so closely allied; Her gay, happy face and her laughing, bright eyes, Are a light in the Lyceum the male members prize.

Mr. Goodrich writes quaintly, a style of his own, But favors us seldom, if we let him alone; His smiling refusals don’t quite fill the bill, Though he fancies the sugar will cover the pill.

See, brilliant and bright as an evening star, Our “brunette contralto,” Lucebia LeBarr; With Miss Mary Taylor, whose talent is fine, Executes harmonies almost divine.

In _stalks_ Frederick Peer, the “tragedian knight,” So happy in “Hamlet,” so good to recite The “Wreck” or the “Richards” either one, two or three-- A Booth in the future I think I foresee.

Now gentle Miss Conkling, of rustic renown, Has kindly consented to honor the town And favor our meetings, in spite of the trains, And cheer us and charm us with musical strains.

The next new delight we wish to impart Will be in the person of Johnny B. Hart; So modest in manner, so earnest in mind, Has piety, talent, good nature combined.

By the way, he will lecture on the 10th of this May Concerning Victoria’s blest reign of to-day; With so fine a speaker and pleasant a theme, The church will be filled with “_la crème de la crème_.”

In _pops_ pungent Pape, with his poem from Poe, Distorted, dissected till you hardly would know How it could of all grace be so thoroughly shaven, Could the poet arise I know he’d be “Raven.”

Last though not _least_, is Mrs. E. Taylor, Of fair ones of forty, I think I’ve seen _frailer_! But she’s blest with _one_ beauty, she never gets blue-- Not even in bidding the Lyceum adieu.

NIGHT’S PHASES.

In sable mantle wrapt at rest, Behold the glorious, gorgeous night, Its firmament in splendor dressed Its canopy the starry height, Whose sparks illume and light the land, And make e’en darkness bright and grand.

Then comes the moon with silver glow, Whose mellow rays both charm and cheer, Benignly blessing all below, Before whose brightness disappear Clouds and shadows, mists and shades, Till silver sheen all earth pervades.

And then the mild, soft summer night, With genial zephyrs, gentle dews, Whose balmy breath wafts rich delight O’er summer slopes where nightly strews The ripened roses’ perfumed leaves, Nor _robs_ the flower that it bereaves.

Then comes the frosty winter night, With crystal boughs and icy brooks, With snow-capped hills, afar and white, A-lending light to earth’s dark nooks, Diffusing rays and borrowed gleams O’er darkened woods and shaded streams.

And then behold the dreary night, Without the spell of moon or stars, Whose somber silence seems to blight Earth’s finest phase, and chills and mars The lonesome landscape, crowds the mind With weird, wild fancies undefined;

And gives each form a phantom shape, Creating visions gaunt and grim, And, as a pall that mourners drape, The clouds surround the shadows dim, Filling the heart with nameless fears, Till night’s dull darkness disappears.

THE FOUNDLING.

As I sat by my window one cool autumn eve, And watched the dim shades on the opposite lawn, From my silent surroundings sweet fancies I weave, Unmindful of time and the approach of the dawn. There I sat in the quiet and beauty of night, Till the sentinel stars grew dim with the light.

When recalled to myself from the silence around, While Nature was sleeping in peaceful repose, By the meager approach of a weak, wailing sound, Which on the night air at intervals rose, Growing faint and fainter as the evening chill Crept over the landscape so somber and still.

Whence comes that faint cry so plaintive and thrilling, That dies on the air at each waft of the breeze? Why creeps o’er my heart this sensation so chilling, As I listen enchained ’mid the rustle of trees? At length all is quiet but the night-watch’s tread, So I hasten beside him, and tell him my dread.

Together we seek in the dimness of dawn, ’Mid grass and dead leaves becovered with dew, To unravel the mystery heard on the lawn; And the darkness dispelling, we find it too true, That a babe, sweet and chubby, but a week or two old, Is lying neglected alone in the cold.

In a coarse blanket-shawl, soiled, ragged, and old, Lay the poor little sleeper, the picture of grief, Aweary with weeping and hunger and cold, Kind nature had brought it this happy relief, Its downy cheeks wet with the cold evening dew, Its chubby fists doubled and dimpled and blue.

A moment we gazed on its rude little bed, And wondered what misery it must atone, Why it was left there--what mystery led To expose it to perish, forsaken, alone, Was it treachery, wickedness, want, or woe, That tempted the mother to abandon it so?

I lifted the babe from the damp, chilly ground, Which awakened the sleeper from its sobbing repose, And casting a startled and wild look around, It nestled again in an infantile doze, While I carried it home to fire and food, Dressed it more cleanly, less common and rude.

A sweet little girl, fat, rosy, and fair, By Nature’s endowments all any could crave, With gentle blue eyes and light downy hair (On a snowy broad brow), inclining to wave; In form sweetly perfect, in face near divine; For such do our wealthy ones daily repine.

This poor little waif, unwelcomed has come, Been rescued by chance from hunger and cold, How early life’s trials for it have begun, How many new fears may its future unfold! Left helpless and homeless to strangers alone, With not even a name to claim as its own.

Now the watchman returns for his foundling care. I resign it reluctantly into his arms, The babe is adrift again--O whither and where? Will it find security from life’s alarms? It may never know father nor mother nor home, Kind heaven protect it from evils to come.

THE NEW YEAR.

The year is an infant, new-born and pure-hearted, No blur on its beauty, no tear on its cheek; How long will it last, when the calendar ’s started, In innocent purity? How soon will it reek With sorrow and sinfulness, woe and unkindness, Till the whole year is blotted with error and blindness?

Each happy new year brings good resolutions, Which wane and wear out ere the change of the moon; We picture new plans at each revolution, Which we find, when to late, have failed us too soon, And our visions of happiness, pleasure, and cheerfulness Are changed, ere the end, to sorrow and tearfulness.

Oh, would that this year, unlike all preceding, Could show a clean record of well-kept resolves-- Good plans well perfected, fair promises heeding-- Instead of a picture that daily dissolves; Then, indeed, would our future be free from all care, Were our pledges and vows kept all through the year.

SPRING SPECIALTIES.

Spring smacks of lamb and peas and eggs, Of rural trips and pleasure, New jaunty hats, and pants with legs A yard around would measure; Of light cloth suits for gents to wear, And kilted skirts for ladies, Who sally out to get the air When the house is hot as Hades; It tells of times when overcoats Are being pawned for summer, When furs are in the camphor chest, And each officious drummer Commences sale of china glue And extra patent polish, When heads of houses gladly would Each canvasser demolish; When brush and broom, and soap and sand Are order of the season; When cleaning paint and scrubbing floors Would rob you of your reason; When home looks damp, and smells of suds, And dust and dirt are plenty; There’s not a happy husband then-- I’m sure not one in twenty-- And the only hope they have to cheer, The season comes but once a year.

MUSIC.

Music, blest of all the arts, We prize thy melting measures, What other power so imparts The magic to awaken hearts? We’d have a line of crowned Mozarts To tune our lives to pleasures.

Music soothes the infant’s sighs, And lulls its baby slumbers; Its charms cement domestic ties, Each home its mellow measures prize; It kindred hearts will harmonize And chain by tuneful numbers.

Music cheers the bridal hours, Each happiness it heightens; It stirs, it animates, empowers The love and hope that may be ours, And ripens buds of bliss to flowers, And every blessing brightens.

Music stirs the warrior’s fire, And goads him on to glory; It kindles every brave desire That love of country can inspire, And makes the hero’s heart beat higher To ’dorn a patriot story.

The church’s choicest gift and best; Its harmony and gladness, Music’s strains, religion’s zest, The Christian’s cheering balm and rest, When hope seems dark, and heart depressed It charms away the sadness.

Last, music of the funeral train, So slowly, sweetly sighing; It softens weeping mourners’ pain; It tells of rapture we’ll regain When heavenly transports we attain, And soothes the dread of dying.

THE FAIR APE OF PHILA.

We have just read the news, Which gave us the blues, That a monkey was born in that city; An honor so rare We wanted to share, So jealousy seasoned our pity.

To have the fair ape Show its infantile shape First out in that public garden, So far away from Her country and kind, Aloof from her comrades She never may find, Nor the trees of the tropics, For which she has pined, Her case is truly a hard one.

This young kangaroo Born out at the Zoo, Made a ripple in public feeling, Which gushes and glows, And clamors and crows, Unjointing at once, Each Darwinian nose, All love from _foreign_ apes stealing.

A Quakeress monkey Is a curious thing, A grave and gay combination; Its infantile antics ’Twill have to bring Into sober sedateness; And, poor little thing, Away all its native Amusements must fling To claim its Quaker relation.

We can’t help thinking ’Twould have been for the best, Could this fair young ape Been born out West, Though the Darwin theory goes to prove Its _right_ to the city of “_Brotherly Love_.”

DECORATION ODE.

Bring fragrant flowers, rich and rare, Let wreathes and roses scent the air. Go strew them freely o’er the graves Of buried heroes, sainted braves. The noisy din of war is o’er, The battle drum shall wake no more. Now quietly their bosoms rest, Those silent hearts by valor blest. On sacred soil their ashes lie, Blest beneath a summer sky; Their deeds of glory, brave and bold, Their valiant will, their dying told, Their honest hearts were in the strife, For liberty they gave their life. May every patriot in our land Beside those sainted heroes stand, And fill their names with warrior praise, And deck their graves with lasting bays. May woman’s gentle, soothing voice Now sing sweet anthems and rejoice, That, as she wreathes the flowers o’er The mounds of loved ones, now no more, Their names and deeds will ever bloom, While flowers fade upon their tomb. They’ve fought their earthly battles well, We’d crown them all with immortelle.

THE HONEYMOON.

With “loves” and “doves” And white kid gloves The “honeymoon” will wane away; Each turn ’s a kiss, This new-born bliss Will last for thirty days, they say.

With gifts and glances And wedding dances, The time speeds onward far too fast; Such blushing, sighing, There’s no denying This novel love ’s too sweet to last.

They love and languish In blissful anguish, Till all around swims with delight; Their vows and pledges Set your teeth on edges, And they “bill and coo” till it dims your sight.

They seem so spooney They’re almost luny, This pair so lately joined in one. They loll and linger, Toy with hand and finger, And think life’s pleasures just begun.

Mistaken mortals! Life’s opening portals Admit a glare too bright too last; And “loves young dream,” Which now may seem Elysian joy, will soon be past.

THE MODEL MAN.

I have an ambition to try to portray In rhythm a masculine model; So seldom such rarities brighten my way To the fields of wild fancy I’m driven to stray, And to paint my ideal in a rhyming array Will force me the muses to coddle.

Well, this model of mine is married, of course, For how could a bachelor be one? So I gauge him by marital morals and force; As a husband, he merits a crown for a cross, For he acts as a beau instead of a boss-- I’d go to the moon to see one.

He seldom or never goes out after night, As other men do, less devoted. To lodges and clubs, and to see every sight, Whether it be wrong or whether it be right; He never comes home either cranky or tight-- A fact which should be duly noted.

He never comes in from the office and cowls If dinner is late or not ready, Nor frowns nor feazes, nor fusses nor howls, Nor goes round the house and grumbles and growls, Nor blesses the knife as he cuts up the fowls, But always seems happy and steady.

He’s a model, indeed--content on a crust. No sighing for honor or riches; He’s as blind as a bat to cob-webs and dust; Nor any domestic derangement or rust Would he notice for worlds, for fear of a muss-- His thoughtfulness truly bewitches.

A buttonless shirt, or a hole in his hose, He views with happy contentment. Nor savagely scowls if his best Sunday clothes Get mussed in the closet; nor blusters nor blows, Nor curses the rocker for stumping his toes; My model is free from resentment.

He never keeps letters for days in his hat That I give him to mail in the morning, But mails them at once, so punctual and pat. Whether it’s from duty or fear of a spat, I’m prepared not to say; I only know that He mails them without further warning.

He never complains of long dry goods bills, Nor squirms when the shoe bill ’s presented; Nor scolds nor scowls when the milliner fills A long sheet of foolscap with bonnets and frills, But pays like a _man_, if it breaks him or kills, With an air that’s resigned and contented.

And then too, he’s ever so ready to go, At the sound of the slightest suggestion, To the opera, theater, lecture, or show; Consenting at once, he never says no, Nor looks bored and cross if it’s stupid or slow, But retains the same happy expression.

He does not complain, in our travels, of trunks, Or baskets, or bundles, or boxes, But smilingly looks at the over-stored bunks In happy complacence--never worries or spunks; This model of mine ’s no cross, surly lunks, But a martyr quite equal to Fox’s.

My ideal man don’t growl for a week, Should I get a few duds for my travels, But gives money and time, to sew and to seek New dresses and wraps, too many to speak, And seems to enjoy each extravagant freak That the mystery of toilet unravels.

Some men will forget in their every-day lives The courtesies due to their spouses; They get kind of used to their homes and their wives, Neglecting the walks, the chats, and the drives, Upon which connubial happiness thrives; But devotion in mine never drowses.