Poems from The Teacups | Page 3

and slim-legged Beau,?And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,?And many another that came at call,--?It would take too long to count them all.?All black,--one could hardly tell which was which,?But every cat knew his own old witch;?And she knew hers as hers knew her,--?Ah, didn't they curl their tails and purr!
No sooner the withered hags were free?Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree;?I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes,?But the Essex people had dreadful times.?The Swampscott fishermen still relate?How a strange sea-monster stole their bait;?How their nets were tangled in loops and knots,?And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots.?Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops,?And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops.?A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,--?It was all the work of those hateful queans!?A dreadful panic began at "Pride's,"?Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides,?And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms?'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.
Now when the Boss of the Beldams found?That without his leave they were ramping round,?He called,--they could hear him twenty miles,?From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles;?The deafest old granny knew his tone?Without the trick of the telephone.?"Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,--?"At your games of old, without asking me!?I'll give you a little job to do?That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!"
They came, of course, at their master's call,?The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all;?He led the hags to a railway train?The horses were trying to drag in vain.?"Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun,?And here are the cars you've got to run.?The driver may just unhitch his team,?We don't want horses, we don't want steam;?You may keep your old black cats to hug,?But the loaded train you've got to lug."
Since then on many a car you 'll see?A broomstick plain as plain can be;?On every stick there's a witch astride,--?The string you see to her leg is tied.?She will do a mischief if she can,?But the string is held by a careful man,?And whenever the evil-minded witch?Would cut some caper, he gives a twitch.?As for the hag, you can't see her,?But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr,?And now and then, as a car goes by,?You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.
Often you've looked on a rushing train,?But just what moved it was not so plain.?It couldn't be those wires above,?For they could neither pull nor shove;?Where was the motor that made it go?You couldn't guess, but now you know.
Remember my rhymes when you ride again?On the rattling rail by the broomstick train!
TARTARUS
WHILE in my simple gospel creed?That "God is Love" so plain I read,?Shall dreams of heathen birth affright?My pathway through the coming night??Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale?Fill with their threats the shadowy vale,?With Thee my faltering steps to aid,?How can I dare to be afraid?
Shall mouldering page or fading scroll?Outface the charter of the soul??Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect?The wrong our human hearts reject,?And smite the lips whose shuddering cry?Proclaims a cruel creed a lie??The wizard's rope we disallow?Was justice once,--is murder now!
Is there a world of blank despair,?And dwells the Omnipresent there??Does He behold with smile serene?The shows of that unending scene,?Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies,?And, ever dying, never dies??Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan,?And is that child of wrath his own?
O mortal, wavering in thy trust,?Lift thy pale forehead from the dust!?The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes?Fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies?When the blind heralds of despair?Would bid thee doubt a Father's care,?Look up from earth, and read above?On heaven's blue tablet, GOD IS LOVE!
AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD
THE glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume,?The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom?The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red,?The maples like torches aflame overhead.
But what if the joy of the summer is past,?And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast??For me dull November is sweeter than May,?For my love is its sunshine,--she meets me to-day!
Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest??Will the needle swing back from the east or the west??At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate;?A friend may prove laggard,--love never comes late.
Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet.?Too early! Too early! She could not forget!?When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed,?She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road.
I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines;?I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines;?I haste by the boulder that lies in the field,?Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.
Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood??Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood??The minute draws near,--but her watch may go wrong;?My heart will be asking, What keeps her so