Shapes of Clay

TO NANINE.

  Dear, if I never saw your face again;
    If all the music of your voice were mute
    As that of a forlorn and broken lute;
  If only in my dreams I might attain
  The benediction of your touch, how vain
    Were Faith to justify the old pursuit
    Of happiness, or Reason to confute
  The pessimist philosophy of pain.
  Yet Love not altogether is unwise,
    For still the wind would murmur in the corn,
      And still the sun would splendor all the mere;
      And I—I could not, dearest, choose but hear
  Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes
    Shine in the glory of the summer morn.

VICE VERSA.

  Down in the state of Maine, the story goes,
    A woman, to secure a lapsing pension,
  Married a soldier—though the good Lord knows
    That very common act scarce calls for mention.
  What makes it worthy to be writ and read—
  The man she married had been nine hours dead!
  Now, marrying a corpse is not an act
    Familiar to our daily observation,
  And so I crave her pardon if the fact
    Suggests this interesting speculation:
  Should some mischance restore the man to life
  Would she be then a widow, or a wife?
  Let casuists contest the point; I'm not
    Disposed to grapple with so great a matter.
  'T would tie my thinker in a double knot
    And drive me staring mad as any hatter—
  Though I submit that hatters are, in fact,
  Sane, and all other human beings cracked.
  Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance;
    Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention;
  In metaphysics I could ne'er advance,
    And think it of the Devil's own invention.
  Enough of joy to know though when I wed
  I must be married, yet I may be dead.

A BLACK-LIST.

  'Resolved that we will post,' the tradesmen say,
  'All names of debtors who do never pay.'
  'Whose shall be first?' inquires the ready scribe—
  'Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?'
  Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain,
  Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane!
  Within that temple all the names are scrolled
  Of village bards upon a slab of gold;
  To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire,
  And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire.
  Yet not to total shame those names devote,
  But add in mercy this explaining note:
  'These cheat because the law makes theft a crime,
  And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme.'

A BEQUEST TO MUSIC.

  'Let music flourish!' So he said and died.
    Hark! ere he's gone the minstrelsy begins:
  The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide,
  Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide—
    The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins!

AUTHORITY.