Cobwebs from a Library Corner

MEMORIES

Yon maiden once a jester did adore,Who early died and in the church-yard sleeps.Once in a while she reads his best jokes o’erAnd sits her down and madly, sorely weeps.

A SAD STATE

I know a man in Real Estate,Whose pride of self’s sublime.He’d like to be a poet greatBut “can’t afford the time.”

AD ASTRA PER OTIUM

As I read over old John Dryden’s verse,The rhymes of men like William Blake, and Gay,The stuff that helped fill Edmund Waller’s purse,And that which placed on Marvell’s brow the bay,It doth appear to me that in those timesThe Muses quaffed not sparkling wine, but grog,And that to grow immortal through one’s rhymesWas ’bout as hard as falling off a log.

CONSOLATION

Shakespeare was not accounted greatWhen good Queen Bess ruled England’s state,So why should I to-day repineBecause the laurel is not mine?Perhaps in twenty-ninety-threeFolks will begin to talk of me,And somewhere statues may be builtOf me, in bronze, perhaps in gilt,And sages full of quips and quirksWill wonder if I wrote my works.So why should I repine to-dayBecause my brow wears not the bay?

SATISFACTION

ON READING “NOT ONE DISSATISFIED,” BY WALT WHITMANGod spare the day when I am satisfied!Enough is truly likened to a feast that leaves man satiate.The sluggishness of fulness comes apace; the dulness of a mind that knows all things.The lack of every sweet desire; no new sensation for the soul!To want no more?What vile estate is that?What holds the morrow for the soul that’s satisfied?What holds the future for the mind content?Is aspiration worthless?Is much-abused ambition then so vile?What is the essence of the joy of living?Must yesterday, to-morrow, and to-day all be the same,With nothing to be hoped for?Is not a soul athirst a joyous thing?Where lies content to him whose eye doth rest on higher things?What satiation can compare to hope?Yet who among the satisfied hath need of hope?What can he hope for if he’s satisfied?’Tis but conceit, and nothing more, to prate of satisfaction!God spare the day when I am satisfied!I do not want the earth,Yet nothing less will leave me quite content;And once ’tis mine,I’m very sure you’ll find me roaming offAfter the universe!

TO A WITHERED ROSE

Thy span of life was all too short —A week or two at best —From budding-time, through blossoming,To withering and rest.Yet compensation hast thou – aye! —For all thy little woes;For was it not thy happy lotTo live and die a rose?

THE WORST OF ENEMIES

I do not fear an enemyWho all his days hath hated me.I do not bother o’er a foeWhose name and face I do not know.I mind me not the small attackOf him who bites behind my back:But Heaven help me to the end’Gainst that one who was once my friend.

JOKES OF THE NIGHT

Blessed jokes of my dreams! Your praises I’d sing.No mirth can compare to the mirth that you bring.I’ve read London Punch from beginning to end,On all comic papers much money I spend,But naught that is in them can ever seem brightBeside the rich jokes that I dream of at night.How I laugh at those jests of my brain when at rest,The gladdest and merriest, sweetest and best!And how, when I wake in the morning and tryTo call them to mind, oh how bashful, how shyThey seem, how they scatter and hide out of sight —Those jokes of my dreamings, those jests of the night!Take the one that came to me to-day just at dawn:The Cable-Car turns and remarks to the Prawn,“The Crowbar is seasick; but then what of that,As long as the Camel won’t wear a silk hat?”I laughed – why, I laughed till my wife had a frightFor fear I’d go wild from that joke of the night.And they’re all much like that one – elusive enough,Yet full of facetious, hilarious stuff —Stuff past comprehension, stuff no man dares tell;For nocturnal jests, e’en told ever so well —’Tis odd it should be so – are not often bright,Except to the dreamer who dreams them at night.

AN AUTUMNAL ROMANCE

A leaf fell in love with the soft green lawn,He deemed her the sweetest and best,And then on a dreary November dawnHe withered and died on her breast.

THE COUNTRY IN JULY

Where glistening in the softness of the nightThe vagrant will-o’-wisps do greet the sight;Where fragrance baffling permeates the breezeThat gently flouts the grasses and the trees;Where every flying thing doth seem to beInstinct with sweetly sensuous melody;Where hills and dales assume their warmest phase,With here and there a scarf of opal hazeTo soften their luxuriant attire;Where one can almost hear the elfin choirAcross the meadow-land, down in the wood,In songs of gladness – there are all things good.Ah! ye who seek the spot where joys abide,Awake! Awake! Seek out the country-side,And through the blue-gray July haze see lifeAll free from care, from sorrow, and from strife.

MAY 30, 1893

It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall sayThat ’twas not part of Nature’s own sweet way,That on the field where once the cannon’s breathLay many a hero cold and stark in death,Some little children, in the after-years,Had come to play among the grassy spears,And, all unheeding, when their romp was done,Had left a wreath of wild flowers over oneWho fought to save his country, and whose lotIt was to die unknown and rest forgot?

THE CURSE OF WEALTH

“What shall I put my dollars in?” he asked, in wild dismay.“I’ve fifty thousand of ’em, and I’d like to keep ’em too.I’d like to put them by to serve some future rainy day,But in these times of queer finance what can a fellow do?“A railway bond is picturesque, and the supply is great,But strangely like a novel that upon occasion drags,Of which the critics of the time in hackneyed phrases state,‘The work has certain value, but the int’rest often flags!’“The same is true of railway shares, ’tis safer to investIn ploughshares, so it seems to me, in this unhappy time.Some think great wealth a blessing, but it cannot stand the test;He’s happier by far than I who’s but a single dime.“He does not lie awake at night and fret and fume, to thinkOf bank officials on a spree with what he’s toiled to get.He is not driven by his woe quite to the verge of drinkBy wondering if his balance in the bank remains there yet.“He does not pick the paper up in terror every nightTo see if V.B.G. is up, or P.D.Q. is down;It does not fill his anxious soul with nerve-destroying frightTo hear the Wall Street rumors that are flying ’bout the town.“Ah, better had I ta’en that cash that I have skimped to save,And spent it on my living and my pleasures day by day!I would not now be goaded nigh unto my waiting grave,By wondering how the deuce to keep those dollars mine for aye.“I’d not be bankrupt in my nerves and prematurely old,These golden shackles must be burst; I must again be free.What Ho without! My ducats – to the winds with all my gold,That I may once again enjoy the rest of poverty.”

THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT POPULIST

It was an ancient populist,His beard was long and gray,And punctuated by his fist,He had his little say:“This is the age of gold,” he said,“’Tis gold for butter, gold for bread,Gold for bonds and gold for fun;Gold for all things ’neath the sun.”Then with a smileHe shook his head.“Just wait awhile,”He slyly said.“When we get in and run the StateWe’ll tackle gold, we’ll legislate.We’ll pass an actAnd make a factBy which these gold-bugs will be whackedTill they’re as coldAs is their gold.We’re going to make a statute law by which ’twill be decreedThat standards are abolished, for a standard favors greed.This is the country of the free, and free this land shall beAs soon as we the ‘people’ have our opportunity,And he who has to pay a billCan pay in whate’er suits his will.The tailor? Let him take his coatsAnd pay his notes;Or if perchanceHe’s long on pants,Let trousers beHis £. s. d.The baker! Let his landlord takeHis rent in cake,Or anything the man can bake.And if a plumber wants a crumb,He may unto the baker comeAnd plumb.A joker needing hats or cloaksCan go and pay for them with jokes,And so on: what a fellow’s gotShall pay for things that he has not.If beggars’ rags were cash, you’d seeNo longer any beggary;In short, there’d be no poverty.”“A splendid scheme,” quoth I; “but stay!What of the nation’s credit, pray?”“Ha-ha! ho-ho!” he loudly roared.“We’ll leave that problem to the Lord.And if He fails to keep us straightOnce more we’ll have to legislate,And so create,Confounding greed,As much of credit as we need.”

ONE OF THE NAMELESS GREAT

I knew a man who died in days of yore,To whom no monument is like to rise;And yet there never lived a mortal moreDeserving of a shaft to pierce the skies.His chiefest wish strong friendships was to make;He cared but little for this poor world’s pelf;He shared his joys with every one who’d take,And kept his sorrows strictly to himself.

IN FEBRUARY DAYS

Fair Nature, like the mother of a wayward childWho needs must chide the offspring of her heart,Disguiseth for a season all the sweet and mildMaternal softness for an austere part.And ’neath her frown the errant earth in winter seemsProstrate to lie, and petulant of mood;Restrained in icy fetters all the babbling streams,Like naughty babes who’re learning to be good.Then, in this second month, most motherlike again,The frown assumed gives now and then a placeTo soft indulgent glances, lessening the pain,And hints of spring and pardon light her face.

A CHANGE OF AMBITION

Horatius at the bridge, and heWho fought at old Thermopylæ;Great Samson and his potent boneBy which the Philistines were slone;Small David with his wondrous aimThat did for him of giant frame;J. Cæsar in his Gallic scrapsThat made him lord of other chaps;Sweet William, called the Conqueror,Who made the Briton sick of war;King Hal the Fifth, who nobly foughtAnd thrashed the foe at Agincourt;Old Bonaparte, and Washington,And Frederick, and Wellington,Decatur, Nelson, Fighting Joe,And Farragut, and Grant, and, oh,A thousand other heroes IHave wished I were in days gone by —Can take their laurels from my door,For I don’t want ’em any more.The truth will out; it can’t be hid;The doughty deed that Dewey did,In that far distant Spanish sea,Is really good enough for me.The grammar’s bad, but, O my son,I wish I’d did what Dewey done!

MESSAGE FROM MAHATMAS

Onset Bay, Massachusetts, May 24, 18 – .– Theosophists and others at Onset Bay Camp Grounds have been greatly excited of late by a message which has been received from the Mahatmas, Koot Hoomi, and his partner, who are summering in the desert of Gobi. The message is of considerable length, and contains much that is purely personal. — Daily Newspaper.

Sound the timbrel, beat the drum!Word from the Mahatma’s come.Straight from Hoomi Koot & Co.Comes the note to us below,Full of joy and gossiping.Hoomi Koot is summeringIn the desert waste of Gobi,In a cottage of adobe.All the little Koots are well.Tommy Koot has learned to spell.Mrs. Koot is busy onPapers on “The Great Anon,”Which by special cable soon,From her workshop in the moon,Will be sent to us belowBy grand Hoomi Koot & Co.We are told that Maggie KootLooks well in her golfing suit;And her brand-new Astral BikeIs the best they’ve seen this cike —Cike is slang for cycle, soI have learned from Koot & Co.Soon she’s going to take a runOut from Gobi to the sun,After which she thinks to raceFor the Championship of Space,And a trophy given byThe Grand High Pasupati.Baby Koot has learned to walk,And likewise, ’tis said, to talk;But, to Mrs. Koot’s dismay,Seems to have a funny way:Full of questions, “Why and How,”All about the sacred cow.Questions of a flippant ilk,Like “Is Buddha made of milk?”Questions void of answers spiteOf his parents’ second sight.What to do with Baby KootWorries all the whole cahoot.Finally the message endsWith best love to all our friends.Give our enemies a twist.Let each true theoso-fistStrike a thunder-hitting blowFor the firm of Koot & Co.;Strike till black is every eyeDoubting our theosophy.And impress on every tribeNow’s the season to subscribe.Guard against the coming storm;Keep our astral bodies warm.Give us bonnets for the head;Keep our spirit stomachs fed.Let your glad remittance goOut to Hoomi Koot & Co.,Through their Agents on the earth,Men and women full of worth;And when next a message comesFrom the Koots down to their chums,Those who’ve paid their money downWill receive a harp and crown.Step up lively! now’s the timeFor your nickel and your dime,To provide for winter suitsFor the grand Mahatma Koots.Furthermore, be not too brash,Send it up in solid cash.Astral money, it may be,Circulates in theory;But ’tis best to give us cold,Bilious, drossy, filthy gold.All our blessings to you go.Yours, for health,H. Koots & Co.

THE GOLD-SEEKERS

Gold, gold, gold!What care we for hunger and cold?What care we for the moil and strife,Or the thousands of foes to health and life,When there’s gold for the mighty, and gold for the meek,And gold for whoever shall dare to seek?UntoldIs the gold;And it lies in the reach of the man that’s bold:In the hands of the man who dares to faceThe death in the blast, that blows apace;That withers the leaves on the forest tree;That fetters with ice all the northern sea;That chills all the green on the fair earth’s breast,And as certainly kills as the un-stayed pest.It lies in the hands of the man who’d sellHis hold on his life for an ice-bound hell.What care we for the fevered brainThat’s filled with ravings and thoughts insane,So long as we holdIn our hands the gold? —The glistening, glittering, ghastly goldThat comes at the end of the hunger and cold;That comes at the end of the awful thirst;That comes through the pain and torture accurstOf limbs that are racked and minds o’erthrown,The gold lies there and is all our own,Be we mighty or meek,If we do but seek.For the hunger is sweet and the cold is fairTo the man whose riches are past compare;And the o’erthrown mind is as good as sane,And a joy to the limbs is the racking pain,If the gold is there.And they say, if you fail, in your dying dayAll the tears, all the troubles, are wiped awayBy the fever-thought of your shattered mindThat a cruel world has at last grown kind;That your hands o’errun with the clinking gold,With nuggets of weight and of worth untold,And your vacant eyesGloat o’er the riches of Paradise!

ODE TO A POLITICIAN

All hail to thee, O son of Æolus!All hail to thee, most high Borean lord!The lineal descendant of the Winds art thou.Child of the Cyclone,Cousin to the Hurricane,Tornado’s twin,All hail!The zephyrs of the balmy southDo greet thee;The eastern winds, great Boston’s pride,In manner osculate caress thy massive cheek;Freeze onto thee,And at thy word throw off congealmentAnd take on a soft caloric mood;And from afar,From Afric’s strand,Siroccan greetings come to thee!The monsoon and simoom,In the soft empurpled Orient,At mention of thy nameDoff all the hats of Heathendom!And all combined in one vast aggregation,Cry out hail, hail, thrice hail to thee,Who after years, and centuries, and cycles e’en,Hast made the winds incarnate!To theeThe visible expression in the flesh,Material and tangible,Of all that goes to make the elementThat rages, blusters, blasts, and blows!And if the poet’s mind speaks true,If he can penetrate their purposes at all,It is not far from their intentTo lift thee on their broad November wingsSo highThat none but gods can ever hopeAgain to gaze upon thy face!

SOME ARE AMATEURS

Shakespeare was partly wrong – the world’s a stage,This is admitted by the bard’s detractors.Had William seen some Hamlets of this ageHe’d not have called all men upon it actors.