Poems From The Breakfast Table | Page 3

to what we know;
That one unquestioned text we read,?All doubt beyond, all fear above,?Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed?Can burn or blot it: GOD IS LOVE!
SPRING HAS COME
INTRA MUROS
THE sunbeams, lost for half a year,?Slant through my pane their morning rays;?For dry northwesters cold and clear,?The east blows in its thin blue haze.
And first the snowdrop's bells are seen,?Then close against the sheltering wall?The tulip's horn of dusky green,?The peony's dark unfolding ball.
The golden-chaliced crocus burns;?The long narcissus-blades appear;?The cone-beaked hyacinth returns?To light her blue-flamed chandelier.
The willow's whistling lashes, wrung?By the wild winds of gusty March,?With sallow leaflets lightly strung,?Are swaying by the tufted larch.
The elms have robed their slender spray?With full-blown flower and embryo leaf;?Wide o'er the clasping arch of day?Soars like a cloud their hoary chief.
See the proud tulip's flaunting cup,?That flames in glory for an hour,--?Behold it withering,--then look up,--?How meek the forest monarch's flower!
When wake the violets, Winter dies;?When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near:?When lilacs blossom, Summer cries,?"Bud, little roses! Spring is here!"
The windows blush with fresh bouquets,?Cut with the May-dew on their lips;?The radish all its bloom displays,?Pink as Aurora's finger-tips.
Nor less the flood of light that showers?On beauty's changed corolla-shades,--?The walks are gay as bridal bowers?With rows of many-petalled maids.
The scarlet shell-fish click and clash?In the blue barrow where they slide;?The horseman, proud of streak and splash,?Creeps homeward from his morning ride.
Here comes the dealer's awkward string,?With neck in rope and tail in knot,--?Rough colts, with careless country-swing,?In lazy walk or slouching trot.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Wild filly from the mountain-side,?Doomed to the close and chafing thills,?Lend me thy long, untiring stride?To seek with thee thy western hills!
I hear the whispering voice of Spring,?The thrush's trill, the robin's cry,?Like some poor bird with prisoned wing?That sits and sings, but longs to fly.
Oh for one spot of living greed,--?One little spot where leaves can grow,--?To love unblamed, to walk unseen,?To dream above, to sleep below!
PROLOGUE
A PROLOGUE? Well, of course the ladies know,--?I have my doubts. No matter,--here we go!?What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor teach:?Pro means beforehand; logos stands for speech.?'T is like the harper's prelude on the strings,?The prima donna's courtesy ere she sings;?Prologues in metre are to other pros?As worsted stockings are to engine-hose.?"The world's a stage,"--as Shakespeare said, one day;?The stage a world--was what he meant to say.?The outside world's a blunder, that is clear;?The real world that Nature meant is here.?Here every foundling finds its lost mamma;?Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa;?Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid,?The cheats are taken in the traps they laid;?One after one the troubles all are past?Till the fifth act comes right side up at last,?When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all,?Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall.?Here suffering virtue ever finds relief,?And black-browed ruffians always come to grief.?When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech,?And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach,?Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven! " and drops upon her knees?On the green--baize,--beneath the (canvas) trees,--?See to her side avenging Valor fly:--?"Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!"?When the poor hero flounders in despair,?Some dear lost uncle turns up millionaire,?Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy,?Sobs on his neck, "My boy! MY BOY!! MY BOY!!!"
Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night,?Of love that conquers in disaster's spite.?Ladies, attend! While woful cares and doubt?Wrong the soft passion in the world without,?Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere,?One thing is certain: Love will triumph here!?Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,--?The world's great masters, when you 're out of school,--?Learn the brief moral of our evening's play?Man has his will,--but woman has her way!?While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire,?Woman's swift instinct threads the electric wire,--?The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves?Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.?All earthly powers confess your sovereign art?But that one rebel,--woman's wilful heart.?All foes you master, but a woman's wit?Lets daylight through you ere you know you 're hit.?So, just to picture what her art can do,?Hear an old story, made as good as new.
Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade,?Alike was famous for his arm and blade.?One day a prisoner Justice had to kill?Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.?Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed,?Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.?His falchion lighted with a sudden gleam,?As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.?He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;?The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.?"Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act,"?The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.)?"Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied;?"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide."?He held his snuff-box,--"Now then, if you please!"?The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze,?Off his head tumbled,--bowled along the floor,--?Bounced down the steps;--the prisoner