Verses from the Oldest Poolio | Page 7

hast no life, yet thou canst breathe?Fresh life on all around.
Thou art the arena of the wise,?The noiseless battle-ground of fame;?The sky where halos may be wreathed?Around the humblest name.
Take, then, this treasure to thy trust,?To win some idle reader's smile,?Then fade and moulder in the dust,?Or swell some bonfire's pile.
TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN"
IN THE ATHENIEUM GALLERY
IT may be so,--perhaps thou hast?A warm and loving heart;?I will not blame thee for thy face,?Poor devil as thou art.
That thing thou fondly deem'st a nose,?Unsightly though it be,--?In spite of all the cold world's scorn,?It may be much to thee.
Those eyes,--among thine elder friends?Perhaps they pass for blue,--?No matter,--if a man can see,?What more have eyes to do?
Thy mouth,--that fissure in thy face,?By something like a chin,--?May be a very useful place?To put thy victual in.
I know thou hast a wife at home,?I know thou hast a child,?By that subdued, domestic smile?Upon thy features mild.
That wife sits fearless by thy side,?That cherub on thy knee;?They do not shudder at thy looks,?They do not shrink from thee.
Above thy mantel is a hook,--?A portrait once was there;?It was thine only ornament,--?Alas! that hook is bare.
She begged thee not to let it go,?She begged thee all in vain;?She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer?To meet it safe again.
It was a bitter sight to see?That picture torn away;?It was a solemn thought to think?What all her friends would say!
And often in her calmer hours,?And in her happy dreams,?Upon its long-deserted hook?The absent portrait seems.
Thy wretched infant turns his head?In melancholy wise,?And looks to meet the placid stare?Of those unbending eyes.
I never saw thee, lovely one,--?Perchance I never may;?It is not often that we cross?Such people in our way;
But if we meet in distant years,?Or on some foreign shore,?Sure I can take my Bible oath,?I've seen that face before.
THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN
IT was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,?His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;?The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim, Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.
It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,?Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade;?He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,?"I 'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."
Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he,?"I guess I 'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,?Leander swam the Hellespont,--and I will swim this here."
And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,-- But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!
Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Oh, what was that, my daughter?" "'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water." "And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a swimming past."
Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--"Now bring me my harpoon! I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."?Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb, Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.
Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,?And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.
A NOONTIDE LYRIC
THE dinner-bell, the dinner-bell?Is ringing loud and clear;?Through hill and plain, through street and lane,?It echoes far and near;?From curtained hall and whitewashed stall,?Wherever men can hide,?Like bursting waves from ocean caves,?They float upon the tide.
I smell the smell of roasted meat!?I hear the hissing fry?The beggars know where they can go,?But where, oh where shall I??At twelve o'clock men took my hand,?At two they only stare,?And eye me with a fearful look,?As if I were a bear!
The poet lays his laurels down,?And hastens to his greens;?The happy tailor quits his goose,?To riot on his beans;?The weary cobbler snaps his thread,?The printer leaves his pi;?His very devil hath a home,?But what, oh what have I?
Methinks I hear an angel voice,?That softly seems to say?"Pale stranger, all may yet be well,?Then wipe thy tears away;?Erect thy head, and cock thy hat,?And follow me afar,?And thou shalt have a jolly meal,?And charge it at the bar."
I hear the voice! I go! I go!?Prepare your meat and wine!?They little heed their future need?Who pay not when they dine.?Give me to-day the rosy bowl,?Give me one golden dream,--?To-morrow kick away the stool,?And dangle from the beam!
THE HOT SEASON
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