Short Poems

What I wish? What? — — Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host is so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst. What I wish? — — Everything, in all its fulness! I thirst to know, I yearn for deeds, I still desire to love with senseless pining, I want to feel the whole thrill of life!

Since doubtless 'tis true, as by Scripture we're told,
That Hell is the hypocrite's share,
Put on a black wig for the sake of thy soul,
And look like a rogue, as you are.

On a certain Scribbler.

Word-valiant wight, thou great he-shrew,
That wrangles to no end;
Since nonsence is nor false nor true
Thou'rt no man's foe or friend.

Into your clefts you have received the poet, granite rocks of Finland, eternal granites, guardian heroes of the land of the glacial crown. With the lyre he is among you. His greeting is a greeting to the masses of the rock, contemporaneous with the world. Like them may he for ever be unchangeable!

To Death's grim shades let meaner spirits fly,
Here rests John C AMPBELL , who shall never die.

The tricksy Monkey, the Goat, the Ass, and bandy-legged Mishka the Bear, determine to play a quartette. They provide themselves with the necessary pieces of music — with two fiddles, and with an alto and counter-bass. Then they sit down on a meadow under a lime-tree, prepared to enchant the world by their skill. They work away at their fiddle-sticks with a will; and they make a noise, but there is no music in it.

Not to look down, or blanch, or care,
But fearless still the foe to meet,
And fearless still to do or dare —
Ah! there are honours of defeat.

Who knows his opportunities? They come
Not trumpet-tongued from Heaven, but small and dumb,
Not beckoning from the future's promised land,
But in the narrow present close at hand.
They walk beside us with unsounding feet,
And like those two that trode the Eastern street
And with their Saviour bartered thought for thought,
Our eyes are holden and we know them not.

Once on a time I fair Dorinda kiss'd,
Whose nose was too distinguish'd to be miss'd:
My dear, says I, I fain wou'd kiss you closer,
But tho' your lips say Aye — your nose says No, Sir —
The maid was equally to fun inclin'd,
And plac'd her lovely lilly-hand BEHIND:
Here, swain, she cry'd, may'st thou securely kiss,
Where there's no nose to interrupt thy bliss.

For her Husband deceas'd Sally chants the sweet lay,
Why, faith, this is singular sorrow;
But (I doubt) since she sings for a dead man to day,
She'll cry for a live one to-morrow.