Part 7

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Nearer brings the wedding-day.

Life is long, and youth is fleeting, And our hearts, if there we search, Still like steady drums are beating Anxious marches to the Church.

In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle; Be a woman, be a wife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act—act in the living Present. Heart within, and Man ahead!

Lives of married folks remind us We can live our lives as well, And, departing, leave behind us;— Such examples as will tell;—

Such examples, that another, Sailing far from Hymen’s port, A forlorn, unmarried brother, Seeing, shall take heart, and court.

Let us then be up and doing, With the heart and head begin; Still achieving, still pursùing, Learn to labor, and to win! _Phœbe Cary._

HOW OFTEN

THEY stood on the bridge at midnight, In a park not far from the town; They stood on the bridge at midnight, Because they didn’t sit down.

The moon rose o’er the city, Behind the dark church spire; The moon rose o’er the city And kept on rising higher.

How often, oh, how often! They whispered words so soft; How often, oh, how often; How often, oh, how oft! _Ben King._

DESOLATION

SOMEWHAT back from the village street Stands the old fashioned country seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw. And there throughout the livelong day, Jemima plays the pi-a-na. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands, And there Jemima plies her hands, While her papa, beneath his cloak, Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!” And swears to himself and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth She plays as if she owned the earth. Through every swift vicissitude She drums as if it did her good, And still she sits from morn till night And plunks away with main and might Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be Free-hearted hospitality; But that was many years before Jemima dallied with the score. When she began her daily plunk, Into their graves the neighbors sunk. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they’ve long since fled, All thankful that they’re safely dead. They stood the racket while alive Until Jemima rose at five. And then they laid their burdens down, And one and all they skipped the town. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do. _Tom Masson._

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT

I SHOT a partridge in the air, It fell in turnips, “Don” knew where; For just as it dropped, with my right I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse, It fell amongst the fir-tree tops; For though a pheasant’s flight is strong, A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie, I found the birds in jelly lie; And the pheasant at a fortnight’s end, I found again in the carte of a friend. _Punch._

AFTER WHITTIER

HIRAM HOVER

(_A Ballad of New England life_)

WHERE the Moosatockmaguntic Pours its waters in the Skuntic, Met, along the forest side Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.

She, a maiden fair and dapper, He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper, Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk In the woodlands of Squeedunk.

She, Pentucket’s pensive daughter, Walked beside the Skuntic water Gathering, in her apron wet, Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.

“Why,” he murmured, loth to leave her, “Gather yarbs for chills and fever, When a lovyer bold and true, Only waits to gather you?”

“Go,” she answered, “I’m not hasty, I prefer a man more tasty; Leastways, one to please me well Should not have a beasty smell.”

“Haughty Huldah!” Hiram answered, “Mind and heart alike are cancered; Jest look here! these peltries give Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.

“I, you think, am but a vagrant, Trapping beasts by no means fragrant; Yet, I’m sure it’s worth a thank— I’ve a handsome sum in bank.”

Turned and vanished Hiram Hover, And, before the year was over, Huldah, with the yarbs she sold, Bought a cape, against the cold.

Black and thick the furry cape was, Of a stylish cut the shape was; And the girls, in all the town, Envied Huldah up and down.

Then at last, one winter morning, Hiram came without a warning. “Either,” said he, “you are blind, Huldah, or you’ve changed your mind.

“Me you snub for trapping varmints, Yet you take the skins for garments; Since you wear the skunk and mink, There’s no harm in me, I think.”

“Well,” said she, “we will not quarrel, Hiram; I accept the moral, Now the fashion’s so I guess I can’t hardly do no less.”

Thus the trouble all was over Of the love of Hiram Hover. Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde Huldah Hover as his bride.

Love employs, with equal favor, Things of good and evil savor; That which first appeared to part, Warmed, at last, the maiden’s heart.

Under one impartial banner, Life, the hunter, Love the tanner, Draw, from every beast they snare, Comfort for a wedded pair! _Bayard Taylor._

AFTER MRS. NORTON

THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER

(_A panegyric_)

My—anything but beautiful, that standest “knock-knee’d” by, “Inverted arch” describes thy back, as “dismal” doth thine eye. Fret not—go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed; I dare not mount on thee (’twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed. Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind; The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind; The stranger “had” thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told; I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I’m sold! I’m sold!

To-morrow’s sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me. Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee? ’Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain; I’ll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some “bait stables” plain. (When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears, A hack’s form for an instant like a thoroughbred’s appears.) And sitting down, I’ll ponder well beside this water’s brink, Here—what’s thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature, drink!

Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o’er; I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more. I’ve tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger’s power be strong, They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long! Who says that I’ll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old? Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal’d. Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main The asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain. _Philip F. Allen._

THE NEW VERSION

A SOLDIER of the Russians Lay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch, There was lack of woman’s nursing And other comforts which Might add to his last moments And smooth the final way;— But a comrade stood beside him To hear what he might say. The japanned Russian faltered As he took that comrade’s hand, And he said: “I never more shall see My own, my native land; Take a message and a token To some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski, Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov.” _W. J. Lampton._

AFTER POE

WHAT TROUBLED POE’S RAVEN

COULD Poe walk again to-morrow, heavy with dyspeptic sorrow, While the darkness seemed to borrow darkness from the night before, From the hollow gloom abysmal, floating downward, grimly dismal, Like a pagan curse baptismal from the bust above the door, He would hear the Raven croaking from the dusk above the door, “Never, never, nevermore!”

And, too angry to be civil, “Raven,” Poe would cry “or devil, Tell me why you will persist in haunting Death’s Plutonian shore?” Then would croak the Raven gladly, “I will tell you why so sadly, I so mournfully and madly, haunt you, taunt you, o’er and o’er, Why eternally I haunt you, daunt you, taunt you, o’er and o’er— Only this, and nothing more.

“Forty-eight long years I’ve pondered, forty-eight long years I’ve wondered, How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore. How could lamp-light from your table ever in the world be able, From _below_, to throw my sable shadow ‘streaming on the floor,’ When I perched up here on Pallas, high above your chamber-door? Tell me that—if nothing more!”

Then, like some wan, weeping willow, Poe would bend above his pillow, Seeking surcease in the billow where mad recollections drown, And in tearful tones replying, he would groan “There’s no denying Either I was blindly lying, or the world was upside down— Say, by Joe!—it was just midnight—so the world _was_ upside down— Aye, the world was upside down!” _John Bennett._

THE AMATEUR FLUTE

HEAR the fluter with his flute, Silver flute! Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot! How it demi-semi quavers On the maddened air of night! And defieth all endeavors To escape the sound or sigh Of the flute, flute, flute, With its tootle, tootle, toot; With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots, The long protracted tootelings of agonizing toots Of the flute, flute, flute, flute, Flute, flute, flute, And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots. Should he get that other flute, Golden flute, Oh, what a deeper anguish will his presence institoot! How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise, As he plays, All the days! How he’ll stop us on our ways With its praise! And the people—oh, the people, That don’t live up in the steeple, But inhabit Christian parlors Where he visiteth and plays, Where he plays, plays, plays In the cruellest of ways, And thinks we ought to listen, And expects us to be mute, Who would rather have the earache Than the music of his flute, Of his flute, flute, flute, And the tootings of his toot, Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonizing toot, Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot, Phlute, phlewt, phlewght, And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot. _Anonymous._

SAMUEL BROWN

IT was many and many a year ago, In a dwelling down in town, That a fellow there lived whom you may know, By the name of Samuel Brown; And this fellow he lived with no other thought Than to our house to come down.

I was a child, and he was a child, In that dwelling down in town, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Samuel Brown,— With a love that the ladies coveted, Me and Samuel Brown.

And this was the reason that, long ago, To that dwelling down in town, A girl came out of her carriage, courting My beautiful Samuel Brown; So that her high-bred kinsmen came, And bore away Samuel Brown, And shut him up in a dwelling house, In a street quite up in the town.

The ladies not half so happy up there, Went envying me and Brown; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this dwelling down in town), That the girl came out of the carriage by night, Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.

But our love is more artful by far than the love Of those who are older than we,— Of many far wiser than we,— And neither the girls that are living above, Nor the girls that are down in town, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.

For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines, From my beautiful Samuel Brown; And the night’s never dark, but I sit in the park With my beautiful Samuel Brown. And often by day, I walk down in Broadway, With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay, To our dwelling down in town, To our house in the street down town. _Phœbe Cary._

THE PROMISSORY NOTE

In the lonesome latter years (Fatal years!) To the dropping of my tears Danced the mad and mystic spheres In a rounded, reeling rune, ’Neath the moon, To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.

Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom, (Ulalume!) In a dim Titanic tomb, For my gaunt and gloomy soul Ponders o’er the penal scroll, O’er the parchment (not a rhyme), Out of place,—out of time,— I am shredded, shorn, unshifty, (Oh, the fifty!) And the days have passed, the three, Over me! And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!

’Twas the random runes I wrote At the bottom of the note, (Wrote and freely Gave to Greeley) In the middle of the night, In the mellow, moonless night, When the stars were out of sight, When my pulses, like a knell, (Israfel!) Danced with dim and dying fays O’er the ruins of my days, O’er the dimeless, timeless days, When the fifty, drawn at thirty, Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise! Fiends controlled it, (Let him hold it!) Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen; Now the days of grace are o’er, (Ah, Lenore!) I am but as other men; What is time, time, time, To my rare and runic rhyme, To my random, reeling rhyme, By the sands along the shore, Where the tempest whispers, “Pay him!” and I answer, “Nevermore!” _Bayard Taylor._

THE CANNIBAL FLEA

IT was many and many a year ago In a District called E. C., That a Monster dwelt whom I came to know By the name of Cannibal Flea, And the brute was possessed with no other thought Than to live—and to live on me!

I was in bed, and he was in bed In the District named E. C., When first in his thirst so accurst he burst Upon me, the Cannibal Flea, With a bite that felt as if some one had driven A bayonet into me.

And this was the reason why long ago In that District named E. C. I tumbled out of my bed, willing To capture the Cannibal Flea, Who all the night until morning came Kept boring into me! It wore me down to a skeleton In the District hight E. C.

From that hour I sought my bed—eleven— Till daylight he tortured me. Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know In that District named E. C.) I so often jumped out of my bed by night Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea.

But his hops they were longer by far than the hops Of creatures much larger than he— Of parties more long-legged than he; And neither the powder nor turpentine drops, Nor the persons engaged by me, Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop Of the terrible Cannibal Flea.

For at night with a scream, I am waked from my dream By the terrible Cannibal Flea; And at morn I ne’er rise without bites—of such size!— From the terrible Cannibal Flea. So I’m forced to decide I’ll no longer reside In the District—the District—where he doth abide, The locality known as E. C. That is postally known as E. C. _Tom Hood, Jr._

ANNABEL LEE

’TWAS more than a million years ago, Or so it seems to me, That I used to prance around and beau The beautiful Annabel Lee. There were other girls in the neighborhood But none was a patch to she.

And this was the reason that long ago, My love fell out of a tree, And busted herself on a cruel rock; A solemn sight to see, For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

We loved with a love that was lovely love, I and my Annabel Lee, And we went one day to gather the nuts That men call hickoree. And I stayed below in the rosy glow While she shinned up the tree, But no sooner up than down kerslup Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And the pallid moon and the hectic noon Bring gleams of dreams for me, Of the desolate and desperate fate Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And I often think as I sink on the brink Of slumber’s sea, of the warm pink link That bound my soul to Annabel Lee; And it wasn’t just best for her interest To climb that hickory tree, For had she stayed below with me, We’d had no hickory nuts maybe, But I should have had my Annabel Lee. _Stanley Huntley._

THE BELLS

HEAR a voice announcing IRVING in The Bells—sledge’s bells! What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells! See the rush upon the pay-hole— People stand a night and day whole To secure a little corner for The Bells! To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and “every brudder” Feels that nothing can be equal to The Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells! Too horrified to cheer, Folk will testify by fear How appalled they are by IRVING in The Bells; While great beads of perspiration will appear, For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels! Gloomy Bells! Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story, Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells, For every Yankee “dude” Unquestionably should Have nightmare after witnessing The Bells! Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or condemn as childish antic IRVING’s dancing, and his gasping, and his yells! There’s a certain admiration which the strange impersonation Still compels, E’en from those who can’t see beauty in The Bells— In the play that MR. LEWIS calls The Bells! Wondrous Bells! You first made Henry famous, so the stage historian tells. Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greeted His performance of Mathias in The Bells? Or will every sneering Yankee, In his nasal tones, say “Thankee, I guess this is just another of your mighty British ‘sells’”? Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherish Could fail to lick creation in The Bells! But if there are detractors Of this foremost of our actors, Of the gentlemanly IRVING—friend of Toole’s— “They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,” They are fools! _Judy._

THE GOBLIN GOOSE

ONCE it happened I’d been dining, on my couch I slept reclining, And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor, It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember, But I had no dying ember, as Poe had, when near the door, Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door Stood a bird,—and nothing more.

And I said, for I’m no craven, “Are you Edgar’s famous raven, Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?” Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered, “Hang Lenore,” he mildly muttered; “you have seen me once before, Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before, I’m the Goose—and nothing more.”

Then he murmured, “Are you ready?” and with motion slow and steady, Straight he leapt upon my bed; he simply gave a stifled roar; And I cried, “As I’m a sinner, at a Goose-Club I was winner, ’Tis a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four, Goose well-stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four.” Quoth he hoarsely, “Eat no more!”

Said I, “I’ve enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, is This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore? For Goose-flesh I will no more ax, if you’ll not sit on my thorax, Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore, You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I’m sure your throat is sore.” Quoth the nightmare, “Eat no more!”

“Goose!” I shrieked out, “leave, oh, leave me, surely you don’t mean to grieve me, You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o’er; Though to-night you’ve brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes to-morrow, Some relief from those I’d borrow at my doctor’s ample store.” Quoth the goblin, “Eat no more!”

And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sitting With me all the night emitting words that thrill my bosom’s core, Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze, on Me he sits until my reason nothing surely can restore, While that Goose says, “Eat no more!” _Punch._

AFTER LORD HOUGHTON

LOVE AND SCIENCE

(_The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible_)

I WANDERED by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; The Sphygmophon was fixed there, Its wires ran past the hill. I heeded not the grasshopper, Nor chirp of any bird, For the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

To test his apparatus, One end I closely press’d, The other at a distance, I hoped was next his chest. I listened for his footfall, I listened for his word, Still the bumping of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no he came not, The night came on alone; And thinking he had tricked me, I loosed the Sphygmophon. The evening air passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred, When—the thumping of his own heart Was all the sound I heard.

With joy I grasped the magnet, When some one stood behind, His hand was on my shoulder (But that I did not mind). Each spoke then—nearer—nearer, We shouted every word; But the booming of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. _Anonymous._

AFTER TENNYSON

THE BATHER’S DIRGE