The sound were each to each repeating. It made my heart beat faster then Than any heart can now be beating. For the world is old and the world is gray— Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty. She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say, And doesn't now go in for Pity. Besides, the melancholy cry Was that of one, 'tis now conceded, Whose plight no one beneath the sky Felt half so poignantly as he did. Moreover, he was black. And yet That sentimental generation With an austere compassion set Its face and faith to the occasion. Then there were hate and strife to spare, And various hard knocks a-plenty; And I ('twas more than my true share, I must confess) took five-and-twenty. That all is over now—the reign Of love and trade stills all dissensions, And the clear heavens arch again Above a land of peace and pensions. The black chap—at the last we gave Him everything that he had cried for, Though many white chaps in the grave 'Twould puzzle to say what they died for. I hope he's better off—I trust That his society and his master's Are worth the price we paid, and must Continue paying, in disasters; But sometimes doubts press thronging round ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching) If war for union was a sound And profitable undertaking. 'Tis said they mean to take away The Negro's vote for he's unlettered. 'Tis true he sits in darkness day And night, as formerly, when fettered; But pray observe—howe'er he vote To whatsoever party turning, He'll be with gentlemen of note And wealth and consequence and learning. With Hales and Morgans on each side, How could a fool through lack of knowledge, Vote wrong? If learning is no guide Why ought one to have been in college? O Son of Day, O Son of Night! What are your preferences made of? I know not which of you is right, Nor which to be the more afraid of. The world is old and the world is bad, And creaks and grinds upon its axis; And man's an ape and the gods are mad!— There's nothing sure, not even our taxes. No mortal man can Truth restore, Or say where she is to be sought for. I know what uniform I wore— O, that I knew which side I fought for!
A YEAR'S CASUALTIES.
Slain as they lay by the secret, slow, Pitiless hand of an unseen foe, Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed The river to join the loved and lost. In the space of a year their spirits fled, Silent and white, to the camp of the dead. One after one, they fall asleep And the pension agents awake to weep, And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail As the souls flit by on the evening gale. O Father of Battles, pray give us release From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace!
INSPIRATION.
O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: I fain would view the lettered stone. What carvest thou?—perchance some grand And solemn fancy all thine own. For oft to know the fitting word Some humble worker God permits. 'Jain Ann Meginnis, Agid 3rd. He givith His beluved fits.'
