And the passionate green-laurelled god of the great,
In a whimsical riddle of stone,
Has chosen a few from the field and the state,
To sit on the steps of his throne.
But I-I will pass from this rage of renown,
This ant-hill commotion and strife;
Pass by where the marbles and bronzes look down,
With their fast frozen gestures of life,
On, out of the nameless who lie 'neath the gloom
Of the pitying cypress and pine;
Your man is the man of the sword and the plume,
But the man with the musket is mine.
I knew him, I tell you! And also I knew
When he fell on the battle-swept ridge,
That the poor battered body that lay there in blue
Was only a plank in the bridge,
Over which some should pass to a fame
That shall shine while the high stars shall shine! Your hero is known by an echoing name,
But the man of the musket is mine.
I knew him! All through him the good and the bad Ran together and equally free;
But I judge, as I trust Christ has judged the poor lad, For death made him noble to me!
In the cyclone of war, in the battle's eclipse,
Life shook out its lingering sands,
And he died with the names that he loved on his lips, His musket still grasped in his hands!
Up close to the flag, my soldier went down;
In the salient front of the line;
You may take for your heroes the men of renown,
But the man of the musket is mine!
There is peace in the May-laden grace of the hours
That come when the day's work is done,
And peace with the nameless, who under the flowers
Lie asleep in the slant of the sun.
Beat the taps! Put out lights! and silence all sound;
There is rifle-pit strength in the grave!
They sleep well who sleep, be they crowned or uncrowned,
And death will be kind to the brave.
IN THE MINING TOWN.
""TIS the last time, darling," he gently said,
As he kissed her lips like the cherries red,
While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown,
"My own is the prettiest girl in town;
To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring
A joyful peal. Was there ever a king
So truly blest, on his royal throne,
As I shall be when I claim my own?"
"Twas a fond farewell; 'twas a sweet good-bye,
But she watched him go with a troubled sigh.
So, into the basket that swayed and swung
O'er the yawning abyss he lightly sprung,
And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe
As they lowered him into the depths below,
Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown,
Was the fairest face in the mining town.
Lo! the morning came; but the marriage-bell,
High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell
For the true heart buried 'neath earth and stone,
Far down in the heart of the mine-alone.
A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day,
For the breaking heart and the heart of clay,
And the face that looked from her tresses brown
Was the saddest face in the mining town.
Thus time rolled on its weary way
Until fifty years, with their shadows gray,
Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes' glow,
And had turned the brown of her hair to snow.
Oh! never a kiss from a husband's lips,
Or the clasp of a child's sweet finger-tips,
Had lifted one moment the shadows brown
From the saddest heart in the mining town.
Far down in the depths of the mine one day,
In the loosened earth they were digging away,
They discovered a face, so young, so fair,
From the smiling lip to the bright brown hair,
Untouched by the finger of Time's decay.
When they drew him up to the light of day
The wondering people gathered 'round
To gaze at the man thus strangely found.
Then a woman came from among the crowd,
With her long white hair, and her slight form bowed,
She silently knelt by the form of clay,
And kissed the lips that were cold and gray.
Then the sad old face with its snowy hair
On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there,
He had found her at last, his waiting bride,
And the people buried them side by side.
SHE is coming, she is coming; unhappy is my fate:
Time, tide, and my wife's mother were never known to wait.
She is coming like a martinet; domestic peace must fly,
With all the tender graces that are absent when she's nigh.
She will wash and scold the children and boss the servant girl,
Rip-saw my lamb-like temper and set my nerves awhirl;
Talk volumes on economy, but all the time declare
My wife's allowance is not half as much as I should spare.
A perfect fiend at bargaining, she'll sally out to buy
A host of things I can't afford, all purchased on the sly.
I'll have to give up smoking to get the children frocks,
And my corns will soon be aching from the patches on my socks.
She'll need a peck of buttons to sew on here and there,
And spools of twist and cotton for every rip and tear;
And, to cap the awful climax, she so well knows how to bake,
And as a cook is unsurpassed from oyster stew to steak.
That while I hate to have her come, my hatred's tinged with woe,
When she departs, I must confess, I hate to see her go!
YES, Jack could do most anything, and do it mighty well; What he knew would fill ten volumes; what he didn't—who could tell?
His temper was angelic and his tongue was always kind,
As a fresh and jolly joker his match was hard to find;
He buzzed and hustled round and round, and yet 'twas very funny! He never did and never would go in for makin' money.
Now when it came to farming, he knew exactly why
The crops were light, the prices low, the seasons wet or dry;
He often told the village merchant how to run a store,
And showed the parson just the way to make the devil sore;
"Twas fine to hear the shrewd advice he was forever givin',
And yet to save his life-the man could never make a livin'.
The year diphthery, scarlet fever, and the measles came,
He never tired of showin' where the doctors were to blame;
And when he talked on teachin', hotel-keepin', and the law,
You know'd 'twas all compressed within the compass of his jaw;
Of all the men you ever seed he seemed the most disarvin',
Though while he seldom paid a debt-his family was starvin'.
He'd lend the clothes from off his back, then turn around and borry,
But before you got your own returned you'd be both mad and sorry,
"Twas thus he buzzed his way through life, a puzzle and a care,
Without a foe, he made his friends and relatives despair;
And then outlived them all and died in peace at seventy-seven,
He made no money here below, he'll do without in heaven.
It isn't that I've got a thing agin' you, Parson Peak,
Nor agin' the many "tried and true" I've met there every week; It's not for this I've stayed away so many Sabba' days
From the cherished little meetin'-house where oft I've joined in praise.
But listen-if you care to know-and I will tell you all.
I think 'twas about two year ago—or was it three, last fall?
The wealthy members voted that they'd have the seats made free,
And most of us was willin' with the notion to agree.
Perhaps the meanin' of the word I didn't quite understand;
For the Sunday after, walkin' 'long with Elsie hand in hand
(You know the little blue-eyed girl-her mother now is dead,
And I am Elsie's grandpa; but let me go ahead).
Well, thinkin' o' the Master and how homelike it would be
To take a seat just anywhere, now that the seats was free,
I walked in at the open door, and up the centre aisle,
And sat down tired, but happy in the light of Elsie's smile.
I listened to your preachin' with an "amen" in my heart,
And when the hymns was given out, I tried to do my part;
And my love seemed newly kindled for the one great power above,
And something seemed to answer back: "For love I give thee love"
But when the benediction came, and we was passin' out,
A whispered sentence, with my name, caused me to turn about.
'Twas not exactly words like this, but words that meant it all:
"It's strange that paupers never know their place is by the wall.”
It wasn't 'bout myself I cared for what the speaker said,
But the little blossom at my side, with pretty upturned head;
And lookin' down at Elsie, there, I thought of Elsie's mother,
And thoughts my better nature scorned, I tried in vain to smother.
I've been to meetin' twice since then, and set down by the wall,
But kept a-thinkin'-thinkin'-till my thoughts was turned to gall;
And when the old familiar hymns was given out to sing,
One look at Elsie's shinin' curls would choke my utterin'.
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