Bunker Hill and Other Poems | Page 9

Nature struck the blow;
No
scheming thrift its downfall planned,
It felt no edge of steel,
No
soulless hireling raised his hand
The deadly stroke to deal.
In bridal garlands, pale and mute,
Still pleads the storied tower;

These are the blossoms, but the fruit
Awaits the golden shower;
The
spire still greets the morning sun,--
Say, shall it stand or fall?
Help,
ere the spoiler has begun!
Help, each, and God help all!
THE FIRST FAN
READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON BRIC-A-BRAC

CLUB, FEBRUARY 21, 1877
WHEN rose the cry "Great Pan is dead!"
And Jove's high palace

closed its portal,
The fallen gods, before they fled,
Sold out their
frippery to a mortal.
"To whom?" you ask. I ask of you.
The answer hardly needs
suggestion;
Of course it was the Wandering Jew,--
How could you
put me such a question?
A purple robe, a little worn,
The Thunderer deigned himself to offer;

The bearded wanderer laughed in scorn,--
You know he always
was a scoffer.
"Vife shillins! 't is a monstrous price;
Say two and six and further talk
shun."
"Take it," cried Jove; "we can't be nice,--
'T would fetch
twice that at Leonard's auction."
The ice was broken; up they came,
All sharp for bargains, god and
goddess,
Each ready with the price to name
For robe or head-dress,
scarf or bodice.
First Juno, out of temper, too,--
Her queenly forehead somewhat
cloudy;
Then Pallas in her stockings blue,
Imposing, but a little
dowdy.
The scowling queen of heaven unrolled
Before the Jew a threadbare
turban
"Three shillings." "One. 'T will suit some old
Terrific
feminine suburban."
But as for Pallas,--how to tell
In seemly phrase a fact so shocking?

She pointed,--pray excuse me,--well,
She pointed to her azure
stocking.
And if the honest truth were told,
Its heel confessed the need of
darning;
"Gods!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "behold!
There! that's
what comes of too much larning!"
Pale Proserpine came groping round,
Her pupils dreadfully dilated


With too much living underground,--
A residence quite overrated;
This kerchief's what you want, I know,--
Don't cheat poor Venus of
her cestus,--
You'll find it handy when you go
To--you know where;
it's pure asbestus.
Then Phoebus of the silverr bow,
And Hebe, dimpled as a baby,

And Dian with the breast of snow,
Chaser and chased--and caught, it
may be:
One took the quiver from her back,
One held the cap he spent the
night in,
And one a bit of bric-a-brac,
Such as the gods themselves
delight in.
Then Mars, the foe of human kind,
Strode up and showed his suit of
armor;
So none at last was left behind
Save Venus, the celestial
charmer.
Poor Venus! What had she to sell?
For all she looked so fresh and
jaunty,
Her wardrobe, as I blush' to tell,
Already seemed but quite
too scanty.
Her gems were sold, her sandals gone,--
She always would be rash
and flighty,--
Her winter garments all in pawn,
Alas for charming
Aphrodite
The lady of a thousand loves,
The darling of the old religion,
Had
only left of all the doves
That drew her car one fan-tailed pigeon.
How oft upon her finger-tips
He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow,

Or kissed her on the rosebud lips,
Like Roman Lesbia's loving
sparrow!
"My bird, I want your train," she cried;
"Come, don't let's have a fuss
about it;
I'll make it beauty's pet and pride,
And you'll be better off
without it.

"So vulgar! Have you noticed, pray,
An earthly belle or dashing bride
walk,
And how her flounces track her way,
Like slimy serpents on
the sidewalk?
"A lover's heart it quickly cools;
In mine it kindles up enough rage

To wring their necks. How can such fools
Ask men to vote for
woman suffrage?"
The goddess spoke, and gently stripped
Her bird of every caudal
feather;
A strand of gold-bright hair she clipped,
And bound the
glossy plumes together,
And lo, the Fan! for beauty's hand,
The lovely queen of beauty made
it;
The price she named was hard to stand,
But Venus smiled: the
Hebrew paid it.
Jove, Juno, Venus, where are you?
Mars, Mercury, Phoebus, Neptune,
Saturn?
But o'er the world the Wandering Jew
Has borne the Fan's
celestial pattern.
So everywhere we find the Fan,--
In lonely isles of the Pacific,
In
farthest China and Japan,--
Wherever suns are sudorific.
Nay, even the oily Esquimaux
In summer court its cooling breezes,--

In fact, in every clime 't is so,
No matter if it fries or freezes.
And since from Aphrodite's dove
The pattern of the fan was given,

No wonder that it breathes of love
And wafts the perfumed gales of
heaven!
Before this new Pandora's gift
In slavery woman's tyrant kept her,

But now he kneels her glove to lift,--
The fan is mightier than the
sceptre.
The tap it gives how arch and sly!
The breath it wakes how fresh and
grateful!
Behind its shield how soft the sigh!
The whispered tale of

shame how fateful!
Its empire shadows every throne
And every shore that man is tost on;

It rules the lords of every zone,
Nay, even the bluest blood of
Boston!
But every one that swings to-night,
Of fairest shape, from farthest
region,
May trace its pedigree aright
To Aphrodite's fan-tailed
pigeon.
TO R. B. H.
AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT,
BOSTON, JUNE 26,
1877
How to address him?