THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING.
We parted by the gate in June,
That soft and balmy month,
Beneath the sweetly-beaming moon,
And (wunth-hunth-sunth-bunth--I can't find
Years were to pass ere we should meet;
A wide and yawning gulf
Divides me from my love so sweet,
While (ulf-sulf-dulf-mulf-stuck again; I can't
get any rhyme to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself).
Oh, how I dreaded in my soul
To part from my sweet nymph,
While years should their long seasons roll
Before (hymph-dymph-symph-I guess I'll
have to let it go at that).
Beneath my fortune's stern decree
My lonely spirits sunk,
For I a weary soul should be,
And a (hunk-dunk-runk-sk-that will never
She buried her dear lovely face
Within her azure scarf,
She knew I'd take the wretchedness,
As well as (parf-sarf-darf-harf-and-harf-that
won't answer either).
Oh, I had loved her many years,
I loved her for herself;
I loved her for her tender fears,
And also for her (welf-nelf-helf-pelf-no, no;
I took between my hands her head,
How sweet her lips did pouch!
I kissed her lovingly and said
(Bouch-mouch-louch-ouch-not a bit of it did
I sorrowfully wrung her hand,
My tears they did escape,
My sorrow I could not command,
And I was but a (sape-dape-fape-ape; well,
perhaps I did feel like an ape).
I gave to her a fond adieu,
Sweet pupil of love's school,
I told her I would e'er be true,
And always be a (dool--sool-mool-fool;
I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with
another fellow before I was gone a month).
THE BARTENDER'S STORY-PELEG ARKWRIGHT.
When I knowed him at first there was suthin',
A sort of a general air,
That was wery particular pleasin',
And what you might call-debonair.
I'm aware that expression is Frenchy,
And highfalutin, perhaps,
Which accounts that I have the acquaintance
Of several quality chaps,
And such is the way they converses.
But speakin' of this here young man,
Apparently nature had shaped him
On a sort of a liberal plan.
Had guv him good looks and good language,
And manners expressin' with vim
His belief in hisself, and that others
Was just as good fellers as him.
Well, this chap wasn't stuck up, by no means,
Nor inclined to be easy put down;
And was thought to be jolly agreeable
Wherever he went around town.
He used to come in for his beverage
Quite regular, every night;
And I took a consid'able interest
In mixin' the thing about right.
A judicious indulgence in liquids
It is natural for me to admire;
But I hev to admit that for some folks
They is pison complete and entire;
For rum, though a cheerful companion,
As a boss is the devil's own chum ;
And this chap, I am sorry to state it,
Was floored in a wrastle with rum.
For he got to increasin' his doses,
And took 'em more often, he did;
And it growed on him faster and faster,
Till inter a bummer he slid.
I was grieved to observe this here feller
A-lettin' hisself down the grade,
And I lectured him onto it sometimes,
At the risk of its injurin' trade.
At last he got awfully seedy,
And lost his respect for hisself;
And all his high notions of honor
Was bundled away on the shelf.
But at times he was dreadful remorseful,
Whenever he'd stop for to think,
And he'd swear to reform hisself frequent,
And end it-by takin' a drink.
What saved that young feller? A woman.
She done it the singlerest way!
He come in the bar-room one evenin'
(He hadn't been drinkin' that day),
And sot hisself down to the table
With a terrible sorrowful face,
And sot there a-groanin' repeated,
A-callin' hisself a gone case.
He was thinkin' and thinkin' and thinkin',
And cursin' hisself and his fate,
And ended his thinkin', as usual,
By orderin' a "bourbon straight."
He was holdin' the glass in his fingers,
When into the place from the street
There come a young gal like a spirit,
With a face that was wonderful sweet.
And she glided right up to the table,
And took the glass gently away;
And she says to him, "George, it is over,
I am only a woman to-day.
I rejected you once in my anger,
But I come to you lowly and meek,
For I can't live without you, my darling,
I thought I was strong, but I'm weak.
"You are bound in a terrible bondage,
And I come, love, to share it with you;
Is there shame in the deed? I can bear it,
For at last to love I am true.
I have turned from the home of my childhood,
And I come to you, lover and friend,
Leaving comfort, contentment, and honor,
And I'll stay to the terrible end.
"Is there hunger and want in the future?
I will share them with you and not shrink;
And together we'll join in the pleasures,
The woes and the dangers of drink." Then she raised up the glass firm and steady (But her face was as pale as the dead)— "Here's to wine and the joy of carousals, The songs and the laughter," she said.
Then he riz up, his face like a tempest,
And took the glass out of her hand,
And slung it away stern and savage,
And I tell you his manner was grand.
And he says, "I have done with it, Nelly!
And I'll turn from the ways I have trod;
And I'll live to be worthy of you, dear,
So help me a merciful God!”
What more was remarked it is needless
For me to attempt to relate;
It was some time ago since it happened,
But the sequel is easy to state:
I seen that same feller last Monday,
Lookin' nobby and handsome and game;
He was wheelin' a vehicle, gen'lemen,
And a baby was into the same.
Lycius, the Cretan prince, of race divine,
Like many a royal youth, was fond of wine;
So, when his father died and left him king,
He spent his days and nights in reveling.
Show him a wine-cup, he would soon lay down
His sceptre, and for roses change his crown,
Neglectful of his people and his state,
The noble cares that make a monarch great.
One day in summer-so the story goes-
Among his seeming friends, but secret foes,
He sat, and drained the wine-cup, when there came
A gray-haired man, and called him by his name,
Lycius!" It was his tutor, Philocles,
Who held him when a child upon his knees.
"Lycius," the old man said, “" it suits not you
To waste your life among this drunken crew.
Bethink you of your sire, and how he died
For that bright sceptre lying by your side,
And of the blood your loving people shed
To keep that golden circlet on your head.
Ah! how have you repaid them?" Philocles,"
The prince replied, " what idle words are these?
I loved my father, and I mourned his fate;
But death must come to all men, soon or late.
Could we recall our dear ones from their urn,
Just as they lived and loved, 'twere well to mourn;
But since we cannot, let us smile instead:
I hold the living better than the dead.
My father reigned and died, I live and reign.
As for my people why should they complain?
Have I not ended all their deadly wars,
Bound up their wounds, and honored their old scars?
They bleed no more; enough for me, and mine,
The blood o' th' grape,-the ripe, the royal wine!
Slaves, fill my cup again!" They filled, and crowned
His brow with roses, but the old man frowned.
"Lycius," he said once more," the State demands
Something besides the wine-cup in your hands;
Resume your crown and sceptre, be not blind:
Kings live not for themselves, but for mankind."
"Good Philocles," the shamed prince replied,
His soft eye lighting with a flash of pride,
"Your wisdom has forgotten one small thing-
I am no more your pupil, but your king.
Kings are in place of gods; remember, then,
They answer to the gods, and not to men."
"Hear, then, the gods, who speak to-day through me,
The sad but certain words of prophecy:
'Touch not the cup; small sins in kings are great;
Be wise in time, nor further tempt your fate.""
"Old man! there is no fate, save that which lies
In our own hands, that shapes our destinies:
It is a dream. If I should will and do
A deed of ill, no good could thence ensue ;
And willing goodness, shall not goodness be
Sovereign, like ill, to save herself, and me?
I laugh at fate." The wise man shook his head:
"Remember what the oracles have said;
'What most he loves, who rules this Cretan land,
Shall perish by the wine-cup in his hand."
Prophet of ill! no more, or you shall die!
See how my deeds shall give your words the lie,
And baffle fate, and all who hate me-so!"
Sheer through the casement, in the court below,
He dashed the half-drained goblet in disdain,
That scattered as it flew a bloody rain;
His courtiers laughed. But now a woman's shriek
Rose terrible without, and blanched his cheek:
He hurried to the casement in a fright,
And lo! his eyes were blasted with a sight
Too pitiful to think of-death was there,
And wringing hands, and madness, and despair!
There stood a nurse, and on her bosom lay
A dying child, whose life-blood streamed away,
Reddening its robe like wine! It was his own,
His son, the prince that should have filled the throne
When he was dead, and ruled the Cretan land,-
Slain by the wine-cup from his father's hand!
|