Oh, for that childish trust sublime!
Oh, for a glimpse of Mother"s face!
Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone,-- Sweet magic of that treble tone, And "Now I lay me down to sleep."
1885.
HEINE"S "WIDOW OR DAUGHTER?"
Shall I woo the one or other?
Both attract me--more"s the pity!
Pretty is the widowed mother, And the daughter, too, is pretty.
When I see that maiden shrinking, By the G.o.ds I swear I"ll get "er!
But anon I fall to thinking That the mother "ll suit me better!
So, like any idiot a.s.s Hungry for the fragrant fodder, Placed between two bales of gra.s.s, Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder!
CHRISTMAS TREASURES
I count my treasures o"er with care.-- The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair.
Long years ago this holy time, My little one--my all to me-- Sat robed in white upon my knee And heard the merry Christmas chime.
"Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright,-- What treasure for my boy?" I said.
And then he named this little toy, While in his round and mournful eyes There came a look of sweet surprise, That spake his quiet, trustful joy.
And as he lisped his evening prayer He asked the boon with childish grace; Then, toddling to the chimney-place, He hung this little stocking there.
That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With singing to our lowly home And kiss my darling as he slept.
They must have heard his little prayer, For in the morn, with rapturous face, He toddled to the chimney-place, And found this little treasure there.
They came again one Christmas-tide,-- That angel host, so fair and white!
And singing all that glorious night, They lured my darling from my side.
A little sock, a little toy, A little lock of golden hair, The Christmas music on the air, A watching for my baby boy!
But if again that angel train And golden-head come back for me, To bear me to Eternity, My watching will not be in vain!
1879.
DE AMICITIIS
Though care and strife Elsewhere be rife, Upon my word I do not heed "em; In bed I lie With books hard by, And with increasing zest I read "em.
Propped up in bed, So much I"ve read Of musty tomes that I"ve a headful Of tales and rhymes Of ancient times, Which, wife declares, are "simply dreadful!"
They give me joy Without alloy; And isn"t that what books are made for?
And yet--and yet-- (Ah, vain regret!) I would to G.o.d they all were paid for!
No festooned cup Filled foaming up Can lure me elsewhere to confound me; Sweeter than wine This love of mine For these old books I see around me!
A plague, I say, On maidens gay; I"ll weave no compliments to tell "em!
Vain fool I were, Did I prefer Those dolls to these old friends in vellum!
At dead of night My chamber"s bright Not only with the gas that"s burning, But with the glow Of long ago,-- Of beauty back from eld returning.
Fair women"s looks I see in books, I see _them_, and I hear their laughter,-- Proud, high-born maids, Unlike the jades Which men-folk now go chasing after!
Herein again Speak valiant men Of all nativities and ages; I hear and smile With rapture while I turn these musty, magic pages.
The sword, the lance, The morris dance, The highland song, the greenwood ditty, Of these I read, Or, when the need, My Miller grinds me grist that"s gritty!
When of such stuff We"ve had enough, Why, there be other friends to greet us; We"ll moralize In solemn wise With Plato or with Epictetus.
Sneer as you may, _I"m_ proud to say That I, for one, am very grateful To Heaven, that sends These genial friends To banish other friendships hateful!
And when I"m done, I"d have no son Pounce on these treasures like a vulture; Nay, give them half My epitaph, And let them share in my sepulture.
Then, when the crack Of doom rolls back The marble and the earth that hide me, I"ll smuggle home Each precious tome, Without a fear my wife shall chide me!
OUR LADY OF THE MINE
The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv, And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv; "T wuz in the year uv sixty-nine,--somewhere along in summer,-- There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer; His name wuz Silas Pettibone,--a" artist by perfession,-- With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession.
He told us, by our leave, he "d kind uv like to make some sketches Uv the snowy peaks, "nd the foamin" crick, "nd the distant mountain stretches; "You"re welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed to us A waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-_floo_-us.
All through the summer Pettibone kep" busy at his sketchin",-- At daybreak off for Eagle Pa.s.s, and home at nightfall, fetchin"
That everlastin" book uv his with spider-lines all through it; Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there warn"t no meanin" to it.
"Gol durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif"less hand is sot at A-drawin" hills that"s full uv quartz that"s pinin" to be got at!"
"Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin" gratifies ye; But one uv these fine times I"ll show ye sumthin" will surprise ye!"
The which remark led us to think--although he didn"t say it-- That Pettibone wuz owin" us a gredge "nd meant to pay it.
One evenin" as we sat around the Restauraw de Casey, A-singin" songs "nd tellin" yarns the which wuz sumwhat racy, In come that feller Pettibone, "nd sez, "With your permission, I"d like to put a picture I have made on exhibition."