I can't extend to every friendIn need a helping hand—No matter though I wish it so,'Tis not as Fortune planned;But haply may I fancy theyAre men of different stripeThan others think who hint and wink,—And so—I smoke my pipe!
A golden coal to crown the bowl—My pipe and I alone,—I sit and muse with idler viewsPerchance than I should own:—It might be worse to own the purseWhose glutted bowels gripeIn little qualms of stinted alms;And so I smoke my pipe.
And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds
And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds
And if inclined to moor my mindAnd cast the anchor Hope,A puff of breath will put to deathThe morbid misanthropeThat lurks inside—as errors hideIn standing forms of typeTo mar at birth some line of worth;And so I smoke my pipe.
The subtle stings misfortune flingsCan give me little painWhen my narcotic spell has wroughtThis quiet in my brain:When I can waste the past in tasteSo luscious and so ripeThat like an elf I hug myself;And so I smoke my pipe.
And wrapped in shrouds of drifting cloudsI watch the phantom's flight,Till alien eyes from ParadiseSmile on me as I write:And I forgive the wrongs that live,As lightly as I wipeAway the tear that rises here;And so I smoke my pipe.
Uncle Sidney to Marcellus--headpiece
Marcellus, won't you tell us—Truly tell us, if you can,—What will you be, Marcellus,When you get to be a man?
You turn, with never answerBut to the band that plays.—O rapt and eerie dancer,What of your future days?
Far in the years before usWe dreamers see your fame,While song and praise in chorusMake music of your name.
And though our dreams foretell usAs only visions can,You must prove it, O Marcellus,When you get to be a man!
O were I not a clod, intentOn being just an earthly thing,I'd be that rare embodimentOf Heart and Spirit, Voice and Wing,With pure, ecstatic, rapture-sent,Divinely-tender twitteringThat Echo swoons to re-present,—A bluebird in the Spring.
The poet's love for the children--headpiece
The poet's love for the children--headpiece
Kindly and warm and tender,He nestled each childish palmSo close in his own that his touch was a prayerAnd his speech a blessed psalm.
He has turned from the marvelous pagesOf many an alien tome—Haply come down from Olivet,Or out from the gates of Rome—
Of the orchard-lands of childhood
Of the orchard-lands of childhood
Set sail o'er the seas between himAnd each little beckoning handThat fluttered about in the meadowsAnd groves of his native land,—
Fluttered and flashed on his visionAs, in the glimmering lightOf the orchard-lands of childhood,The blossoms of pink and white.
And there have been sobs in his bosom,As out on the shores he stept,And many a little welcomerHas wondered why he wept.—
That was because, O children,Ye might not always beThe same that the Savior's arms were woundAbout, in Galilee.
Friend of a wayward hour--headpiece
Friend of a wayward hour--headpiece
Friend of a wayward hour, you cameLike some good ghost, and went the same;And I within the haunted placeSit smiling on your vanished face,And talking with—your name.
But thrice the pressure of your hand—First hail—congratulations—andYour last "God bless you!" as the trainThat brought you snatched you back againInto the unknown land.
"God bless me?" Why, your very prayerWas answered ere you asked it there,I know—for when you came to lendMe your kind hand, and call me friend,God blessed me unaware.
Friend of a wayward hour--tailpiece
My Henry--headpiece
My Henry--headpiece
He's jes' a great, big, awk'ard, hulkin'Feller,—humped, and sort o' sulkin'—Like, and ruther still-appearin'—Kind-as-ef he wuzn't keerin'Whether school helt out er not—That's my Henry, to a dot!
Allus kind o' liked him—whetherChildern, er growed-up together!Fifteen year' ago and better,'Fore he ever knowed a letter,Run acrosst the little foolIn my Primer-class at school.
Nothin' that boy wouldn't resk!
Nothin' that boy wouldn't resk!
When the Teacher wuzn't lookin',He'd be th'owin' wads; er crookin'Pins; er sprinklin' pepper, more'nLikely, on the stove; er borin'Gimlet-holes up thue his desk—Nothin'thatboy wouldn't resk!
But, somehow, as I was goin'On to say, he seemed so knowin',Otherways, and cute and cunnin'—Allus wuz a notion runnin'Thue my giddy, fool-head heJes' had be'n cut out fer me!
Don't go much onprophesyin',But last night whilse I wuz fryin'Supper, with that man a-pitchin'Little Marthy round the kitchen,Think-says-I, "Them baby's eyesIs my Henry's, jes' p'cise!"
A letter to a friend--headpiece
The past is like a storyI have listened to in dreamsThat vanished in the gloryOf the Morning's early gleams;And—at my shadow glancing—I feel a loss of strength,As the Day of Life advancingLeaves it shorn of half its length.
But it's all in vain to worryAt the rapid race of Time—And he flies in such a flurryWhen I trip him with a rhyme,I'll bother him no longerThan to thank you for the thoughtThat "my fame is growing strongerAs you really think it ought."
And though I fall below it,I might know as much of mirthTo live and die a poetOf unacknowledged worth;For Fame is but a vagrant—Though a loyal one and brave,And his laurels ne'er so fragrantAs when scattered o'er the grave.
A letter to a friend--tailpiece
The old-fashioned Bible--headpiece
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhoodThat now but in mem'ry I sadly review;The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood,The rail fence, and horses all tethered thereto;The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple,The doves that came fluttering out overheadAs it solemnly gathered the God-fearing peopleTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible—The dust-covered Bible—The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.
The blessed old volume
The blessed old volume
The blessed old volume! The face bent above it—As now I recall it—is gravely severe,Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love itMakes grander the text through the lens of a tear,And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his headLike a haloed patriarch's leans as he listensTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible—The dust-covered Bible—The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.
Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derisionAnd scoff the old book though it uselessly liesIn the dust of the past, while this newer revisionLisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,When so long He has, listening, leaned out of HeavenTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read?The old-fashioned Bible—The dust-covered Bible—The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.
Good-by er howdy-do--headpiece
Say good-by er howdy-do—What's the odds betwixt the two?Comin'—goin', ev'ry day—Best friends first to go away—Grasp of hands you'd ruther holdThan their weight in solid goldSlips their grip while greetin' you.—Say good-by er howdy-do!
Howdy-do, and then, good-by—Mixes jes' like laugh and cry;Deaths and births, and worst and best,Tangled their contrariest;Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bellSkeerin' up some funer'l knell.—Here's my song, and there's your sigh.—Howdy-do, and then, good-by!
Say good-by er howdy-do—Jes' the same to me and you;'Taint worth while to make no fuss,'Cause the job's put up on us!Some One's runnin' this concernThat's got nothin' else to learn:EfHe'swillin', we'll pull through—Say good-by er howdy-do!
Good-by er howdy-do--tailpiece
When we three meet? Ah! friend of mineWhose verses well and flow as wine,—My thirsting fancy thou dost fillWith draughts delicious, sweeter stillSince tasted by those lips of thine.
I pledge thee, through the chill sunshineOf autumn, with a warmth divine,Thrilled through as only I shall thrillWhen we three meet.
I pledge thee, if we fast or dine,We yet shall loosen, line by line,Old ballads, and the blither trillOf our-time singers—for there willBe with us all the Muses nineWhen we three meet.
"The little man in the tinshop"--headpiece
"The little man in the tinshop"--headpiece
When I was a little boy, long ago,And spoke of the theater as the "show,"The first one that I went to see,Mother's brother it was took me—(My uncle, of course, though he seemed to beOnly a boy—I loved him so!)And ah, how pleasant he made it all!And the things he knew thatIshould know!—The stage, the "drop," and the frescoed wall;The sudden flash of the lights; and oh,The orchestra, with its melody,And the lilt and jingle and jubileeOf "The Little Man in the Tinshop"!
For Uncle showed me the "Leader" there,With his pale, bleak forehead and long, black hair;Showed me the "Second," and "'Cello," and "Bass,"And the "B-Flat," pouting and puffing his faceAt the little end of the horn he blewSilvery bubbles of music through;And he coined me names of them, each in turn,Some comical name that I laughed to learn,Clean on down to the last and best,—The lively little man, never at rest,Who hides away at the end of the string,And tinkers and plays on everything,—That's "The Little Man in the Tinshop"!
Raking a drum like a rattle of hail,Clinking a cymbal or castanet;Chirping a twitter or sending a wailThrough a piccolo that thrills me yet;Reeling ripples of riotous bells,And tipsy tinkles of triangles—Wrangled and tangled in skeins of soundTill it seemed that my very soul spun round,As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward myRadiant uncle, who snapped his eyeAnd said, with the courtliest wave of his hand,"Why, that little master of all the bandIs 'The Little Man in the Tinshop'!
The orchestra, with its melody
The orchestra, with its melody
"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful,And Paganini, and Ole Bull,Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn,And fair Parepa, whose matchless toneKarl, her master, with magic bow,Blent with the angels', and held her soTranced till the rapturous Infinite—And I've heard arias, faint and low,From many an operatic lightGlimmering on my swimming sightDimmer and dimmer, until, at last,I still sit, holding my roses fastFor 'The Little Man in the Tinshop.'"
Oho! my Little Man, joy to you—Andyours—andtheirs—your lifetime through!ThoughI'veheard melodies, boy and man,Since first "the show" of my life began,Never yet have I listened toSadder, madder, or gladder gleesThan your unharmonied harmonies;For yours is the music that appealsTo all the fervor the boy's heart feels—All his glories, his wildest cheers,His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears;And so, with his first bouquet, he kneelsTo "The Little Man in the Tinshop."
Tommy Smith--headpiece
Dimple-cheeked and rosy-lipped,With his cap-rim backward tipped,Still in fancy I can seeLittle Tommy smile on me—Little Tommy Smith.
Little unsung Tommy Smith—Scarce a name to rhyme it with;Yet most tenderly to meSomething sings unceasingly—Little Tommy Smith.
On the verge of some far landStill forever does he stand,With his cap-rim rakishlyTilted; so he smiles on me—Little Tommy Smith.
Elder-blooms contrast the graceOf the rover's radiant face—Whistling back, in mimicry,"Old—Bob—White!" all liquidly—Little Tommy Smith.
O my jaunty statuetteOf first love, I see you yet.Though you smile so mistily,It is but through tears I see,Little Tommy Smith.
But, with crown tipped back behind,And the glad hand of the windSmoothing back your hair, I seeHeaven's best angel smile on me,—Little Tommy Smith.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Our warm fellowship is oneFar too old to comprehendWhere its bond was first begun:Mirage-like before my gazeGleams a land of other days,Where two truant boys, astray,Dream their lazy lives away.
There's a vision, in the guiseOf Midsummer, where the PastLike a weary beggar liesIn the shadow Time has cast;And as blends the bloom of treesWith the drowsy hum of bees,Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,All the pleasures we have knownThrill me now as I extendThis old hand and grasp your own—Feeling, in the rude caress,All affection's tenderness;Feeling, though the touch be rough,Our old souls are soft enough.
So we'll make a mellow hour:Fill your pipe, and taste the wine—Warp your face, if it be sour,I can spare a smile from mine;If it sharpen up your wit,Let me feel the edge of it—I have eager ears to lend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?Are we all that we pretendIn the jolly life we lead?—Bachelors, we must confess,Boast of "single blessedness"To the world, but not alone—Man's best sorrow is his own!
And the saddest truth is this,—Life to us has never provedWhat we tasted in the kissOf the women we have loved:Vainly we congratulateOur escape from such a fateAs their lying lips could send,Tom Van Arden, my old friend!
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,Ripen sweetest, I contend,As the frost falls over them:Your regard for me to-dayMakes November taste of May,And through every vein of rhymePours the blood of summer-time.
When our souls are cramped with youthHappiness seems far awayIn the future, while, in truth,We look back on it to-dayThrough our tears, nor dare to boast,—"Better to have loved and lost!"Broken hearts are hard to mend,Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,I grow prosy, and you tire;Fill the glasses while I bendTo prod up the failing fire. . . .You are restless:—I presumeThere's a dampness in the room.—Much of warmth our nature begs,With rheumatics in our legs! . . .
Humph! the legs we used to flingLimber-jointed in the dance,When we heard the fiddle ringUp the curtain of Romance,And in crowded public hallsPlayed with hearts like jugglers' balls.—Feats of mountebanks, depend!—Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,Pardon, then, this theme of mine:While the firelight leaps to lendHigher color to the wine,—I propose a health to thoseWho havehomes, and home's repose,Wife- and child-love without end!. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Our old friend Neverfail--headpiece
O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't runWhen you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun;It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not,Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;
It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black,And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;—But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail,When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!
I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay,And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway;I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall,That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all;I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can;I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman;But most I like—with you, my boy—our old friend Neverfail,When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!
A corpulent man is my bachelor chum,With a neck apoplectic and thick—An abdomen on him as big as a drum,And a fist big enough for the stick;With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case,And a wobble uncertain—as thoughHis little bow-legs had forgotten the paceThat in youth used to favor him so.
He is forty, at least; and the top of his headIs a bald and a glittering thing;And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as redAs three rival roses in spring;
His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in
His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in
His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in,And his laugh is so breezy and brightThat it ripples his features and dimples his chinWith a billowy look of delight.
He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw"—That "the ills of a bachelor's lifeAre blisses, compared with a mother-in-lawAnd a boarding-school miss for a wife!"So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks,And he dines and he wines, all alone,With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinksOf the comforts he never has known.
But up in his den—(Ah, my bachelor chum!)—I have sat with him there in the gloom,When the laugh of his lips died away to becomeBut a phantom of mirth in the room.And to look on him there you would love him, for allHis ridiculous ways, and be dumbAs the little girl-face that smiles down from the wallOn the tears of my bachelor chum.
Art and poetry--headpiece
Wess he says, and sort o' grins,"Art and Poetry is twins!
"Yit, if I'd my pick, I'd shakePoetry, and no mistake!
"Pictures, allus, 'peared tome,Clean laid over Poetry!
"Let medraw, and then, i jings,I'll not keer a straw who sings.
"'F I could draw as you have drew,Like to jes' swop pens with you!
"Picture-drawin' 's my pet visionOf Life-work in Lands Elysian.
"Pictures is first language weFind hacked out in History.
"Most delight we ever tookWas in our first Picture-book.
"'Thout the funny picture-makers,They'd be lots more undertakers!
"Still, as I say, Rhymes and Art'Smighty hard to tell apart.
"Songs and pictures go togetherSame as birds and summer weather."
So Wess says, and sort o' grins,"Art and Poetry is twins."
Down to the Capital--headpiece
I' be'n down to the Capital at Washington, D. C.,Where Congerss meets and passes on the pensions ort to beAllowed to old one-legged chaps, like me, 'at sence the warDon't wear their pants in pairs at all—and yit how proud we are!