A luminous peasant was driving his wain, And he offered my soul a ride. But I nourished a sorrow uncommonly tall, And I fixed him fast with mine eye. 'O, peasant,' I sang with a dying fall, 'Go leave me to sing and die.' The water was weltering round my feet, As prone on the beach they lay. I chanted my death-song loud and sweet; 'Kioodle, ioodle, iay!' Then I heard the swish of erecting ears Which caught that enchanted strain. The ocean was swollen with storms of tears That fell from the shining swain. 'O, poet,' leapt he to the soaken sand, 'That ravishing song would make The devil a saint.' He held out his hand And solemnly added: 'Shake.' We shook. 'I crave a victim, you see,' He said—'you came hither to die.' The Angel of Death, 't was he! 't was he! And the victim he crove was I! 'T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard; And he knocked me on the head. O Lord! I thought it exceedingly hard, For I didn't want to be dead. 'You'll sing no worser for that,' said he, And he drove with my soul away, O, death-song singers, be warned by me, Kioodle, ioodle, iay!
AGAIN.
Well, I've met her again—at the Mission. She'd told me to see her no more; It was not a command—a petition; I'd granted it once before. Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me. Repenting her virtuous freak— Subdued myself daily and nightly For the better part of a week. And then ('twas my duty to spare her The shame of recalling me) I Just sought her again to prepare her For an everlasting good-bye. O, that evening of bliss—shall I ever Forget it?—with Shakespeare and Poe! She said, when 'twas ended: 'You're never To see me again. And now go.' As we parted with kisses 'twas human And natural for me to smile As I thought, 'She's in love, and a woman: She'll send for me after a while.' But she didn't; and so—well, the Mission Is fine, picturesque and gray; It's an excellent place for contrition— And sometimes she passes that way. That's how it occurred that I met her, And that's ah there is to tell— Except that I'd like to forget her Calm way of remarking: 'I'm well.' It was hardly worth while, all this keying My soul to such tensions and stirs To learn that her food was agreeing With that little stomach of hers.
HOMO PODUNKENSIS.
As the poor ass that from his paddock strays Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise, Recounting volubly their well-bred leer, Their port impressive and their wealth of ear, Mistaking for the world's assent the clang Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue; So the dull clown, untraveled though at large, Visits the city on the ocean's marge, Expands his eyes and marvels to remark Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark; Prates of 'all nations,' wonders as he stares That native merchants sell imported wares, Nor comprehends how in his very view A foreign vessel has a foreign crew; Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth, Swears it superior to aught on earth, Sighs for the temples locally renowned— The village school-house and the village pound— And chalks upon the palaces of Rome
