Classic Poem

“What! marry my daughter?—you, sir?—
A clerk, with only your pay?
Your cheek is something amazing:
Enough. I've no more to say.”

“One moment—your daughter loves me,
I am strong, and willing to work.
Wealth may be won, and honor—
And I'm not the one to shirk.”

The banker rose up in anger—
“No more of this folly, I say!
Be gone! but another word, sir,
And you lose your place to-day.”


The vault of the bank at midnight.
At midnight dark and cold;
The cashier hastily filling
A grip with the bags of gold.

A deep voice close beside him—
“Throw up your hands or die!”
He turned, faced a pistol's muzzle,
And a stern, commanding eye.

Frighted, pallid, and nerveless,
No strength to resist had he,
While his limbs were bound and fettered
As firmly as firm could be.

The news flew through the city—
Men said, “'Twas a brave night's work!”
A man had grown suddenly famous—
Young Oscar, the banker's clerk.

Walking the streets at midnight,
Restless with love's despair,
He had seen the sly thief enter—
Had followed, and caught him there.


In the banker's sumptuous dwelling
The Christmas feast was spread,
Beside the host stood Oscar,
The taller by half a head.

The banker turned, and, taking
The young man's trembling hand,
Through the great rooms he led him—
Through doors by arches spanned—

To where his dark eyed daughter
By her white-haired mother stood;
And smiled as the lovers' faces
Flushed red with warm young blood.

Then said he to young Oscar,
As he joined their throbbing hands,
“Choice is the gift I give you,
Yet my debt uncancelled stands.

“Therefore, besides my daughter,
I give you a post of trust,
The cashier's place left vacant
Is yours—it is but just.”

A silence deep had fallen
O'er all that brilliant throng,
But now the hush was broken
By cheers both loud and long.

Astonished at the honors
Thus showered on his head,
Stood Oscar, modest, blushing,—
“'Twas just good luck,” he said.