Fifty years Other Poems | Page 8

the level of the start, back to the wolf. I give him claws.?I set his teeth into his brother's throat.?I make him drunk with his brother's blood.?And I laugh ho! ho! while he destroys himself.?O, mighty Prince, not only do I slay,?But I draw Man hellward."
And Satan smiled, stretched out his hand, and said,--?"O War, of all the scourges of humanity, I crown you chief."
And Hell rang with the acclamation of the Fiends.
A MID-DAY DREAMER
I love to sit alone, and dream,?And dream, and dream;?In fancy's boat to softly glide?Along some stream?Where fairy palaces of gold?And crystal bright?Stand all along the glistening shore:?A wondrous sight.
My craft is built of ivory,?With silver oars,?The sails are spun of golden threads,?And priceless stores?Of precious gems adorn its prow,?And 'round its mast?An hundred silken cords are set?To hold it fast.
My galley-slaves are sprightly elves?Who, as they row,?And as their shining oars they swing?Them to and fro,?Keep time to music wafted on?The scented air,?Made by the mermaids as they comb?Their golden hair.
And I the while lie idly back,?And dream, and dream,?And let them row me where they will?Adown the stream.
THE TEMPTRESS
Old Devil, when you come with horns and tail,?With diabolic grin and crafty leer;?I say, such bogey-man devices wholly fail?To waken in my heart a single fear.
But when you wear a form I know so well,?A form so human, yet so near divine;?'Tis then I fall beneath the magic of your spell,?'Tis then I know the vantage is not mine.
Ah! when you take your horns from off your head,?And soft and fragrant hair is in their place;?I must admit I fear the tangled path I tread?When that dear head is laid against my face.
And at what time you change your baleful eyes?For stars that melt into the gloom of night,?All of my courage, my dear fellow, quickly flies;?I know my chance is slim to win the fight.
And when, instead of charging down to wreck?Me on a red-hot pitchfork in your hand,?You throw a pair of slender arms about my neck,?I dare not trust the ground on which I stand.
Whene'er in place of using patent wile,?Or trying to frighten me with horrid grin,?You tempt me with two crimson lips curved in a smile;?Old Devil, I must really own, you win.
GHOSTS OF THE OLD YEAR
The snow has ceased its fluttering flight,?The wind sunk to a whisper light,?An ominous stillness fills the night,?A pause--a hush.?At last, a sound that breaks the spell,?Loud, clanging mouthings of a bell,?That through the silence peal and swell,?And roll, and rush.
What does this brazen tongue declare,?That falling on the midnight air?Brings to my heart a sense of care?Akin to fright??'Tis telling that the year is dead,?The New Year come, the Old Year fled,?Another leaf before me spread?On which to write.
It tells the deeds that were not done,?It tells of races never run,?Of victories that were not won,?Barriers unleaped.?It tells of many a squandered day,?Of slighted gems and treasured clay,?Of precious stores not laid away,?Of fields unreaped.
And so the years go swiftly by,?Each, coming, brings ambitions high,?And each, departing, leaves a sigh?Linked to the past.?Large resolutions, little deeds;?Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds?Until the blotted record reads,?"Failure!" at last.
THE GHOST OF DEACON BROWN
In a backwoods town?Lived Deacon Brown,?And he was a miser old;?He would trust no bank,?So he dug, and sank?In the ground a box of gold,?Down deep in the ground a box of gold.
He hid his gold,?As has been told,?He remembered that he did it;?But sad to say,?On the very next day,?He forgot just where he hid it:?To find his gold he tried and tried?Till he grew faint and sick, and died.
Then on each dark and gloomy night?A form in phosphorescent white,?A genuine hair-raising sight,?Would wander through the town.?And as it slowly roamed around,?With a spade it dug each foot of ground;?So the folks about?Said there was no doubt?'Twas the ghost of Deacon Brown.
Around the church?This Ghost would search,?And whenever it would see?The passers-by?Take wings and fly?It would laugh in ghostly glee,?Hee, hee!--it would laugh in ghostly glee.
And so the town?Went quickly down,?For they said that it was haunted;?And doors and gates,?So the story states,?Bore a notice, "Tenants wanted."
And the town is now for let,?But the ghost is digging yet.
"LAZY"
Some men enjoy the constant strife?Of days with work and worry rife,?But that is not my dream of life:?I think such men are crazy.?For me, a life with worries few,?A job of nothing much to do,?Just pelf enough to see me through:?I fear that I am lazy.
On winter mornings cold and drear,?When six o'clock alarms I hear,?'Tis then I love to shift my ear,?And hug my downy pillows.?When in the shade it's ninety-three,?No job in town looks good to me,?I'd rather loaf down by the sea,?And watch the foaming billows.
Some people think the world's a school,?Where labor is the only rule;?But I'll not make