Verses from the Oldest Poolio | Page 7

TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER
WAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf
To me looks more than
deadly pale,
Unknowing what may stain thee yet,--
A poem or a
tale.
Who can thy unborn meaning scan?
Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now?

No,--seek to trace the fate of man
Writ on his infant brow.
Love may light on thy snowy cheek,
And shake his Eden-breathing
plumes;
Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,
Or Angelina blooms.
Satire may lift his bearded lance,
Forestalling Time's slow-moving
scythe,
And, scattered on thy little field,
Disjointed bards may
writhe.
Perchance a vision of the night,
Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,

Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along,
Or skeleton may grin
If it should be in pensive hour
Some sorrow-moving theme I try,

Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall,
For all I doom to die!
But if in merry mood I touch
Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee

Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips
As ripples on the sea.
The Weekly press shall gladly stoop
To bind thee up among its
sheaves;
The Daily steal thy shining ore,
To gild its leaden leaves.
Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak,
Till distant shores shall
hear the sound;
Thou 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