Poems From The Breakfast Table | Page 3

than
before.
That when we sob o'er fancied woes,
The angels hovering overhead

Count every pitying drop that flows,
And love us for the tears we
shed.
That when we stand with tearless eye
And turn the beggar from our
door,
They still approve us when we sigh,
"Ah, had I but one
thousand more!"
Though temples crowd the crumbled brink
O'erhanging truth's eternal
flow,
Their tablets bold with what we think,
Their echoes dumb to
what we know;
That one unquestioned text we read,
All doubt beyond, all fear above,

Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed
Can burn or blot it: GOD IS
LOVE!
SPRING HAS COME
INTRA MUROS
THE sunbeams, lost for half a year,
Slant through my pane their
morning rays;
For dry northwesters cold and clear,
The east blows
in its thin blue haze.
And first the snowdrop's bells are seen,
Then close against the
sheltering wall
The tulip's horn of dusky green,
The peony's dark
unfolding ball.
The golden-chaliced crocus burns;
The long narcissus-blades appear;

The cone-beaked hyacinth returns
To light her blue-flamed
chandelier.

The willow's whistling lashes, wrung
By the wild winds of gusty
March,
With sallow leaflets lightly strung,
Are swaying by the
tufted larch.
The elms have robed their slender spray
With full-blown flower and
embryo leaf;
Wide o'er the clasping arch of day
Soars like a cloud
their hoary chief.
See the proud tulip's flaunting cup,
That flames in glory for an hour,--

Behold it withering,--then look up,--
How meek the forest
monarch's flower!
When wake the violets, Winter dies;
When sprout the elm-buds,
Spring is near:
When lilacs blossom, Summer cries,
"Bud, little
roses! Spring is here!"
The windows blush with fresh bouquets,
Cut with the May-dew on
their lips;
The radish all its bloom displays,
Pink as Aurora's
finger-tips.
Nor less the flood of light that showers
On beauty's changed
corolla-shades,--
The walks are gay as bridal bowers
With rows of
many-petalled maids.
The scarlet shell-fish click and clash
In the blue barrow where they
slide;
The horseman, proud of streak and splash,
Creeps homeward
from his morning ride.
Here comes the dealer's awkward string,
With neck in rope and tail in
knot,--
Rough colts, with careless country-swing,
In lazy walk or
slouching trot.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Wild filly from the mountain-side,
Doomed to the close and chafing
thills,
Lend me thy long, untiring stride
To seek with thee thy

western hills!
I hear the whispering voice of Spring,
The thrush's trill, the robin's
cry,
Like some poor bird with prisoned wing
That sits and sings,
but longs to fly.
Oh for one spot of living greed,--
One little spot where leaves can
grow,--
To love unblamed, to walk unseen,
To dream above, to
sleep below!
PROLOGUE
A PROLOGUE? Well, of course the ladies know,--
I have my doubts.
No matter,--here we go!
What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor teach:

Pro means beforehand; logos stands for speech.
'T is like the harper's
prelude on the strings,
The prima donna's courtesy ere she sings;

Prologues in metre are to other pros
As worsted stockings are to
engine-hose.
"The world's a stage,"--as Shakespeare said, one day;

The stage a world--was what he meant to say.
The outside world's a
blunder, that is clear;
The real world that Nature meant is here.

Here every foundling finds its lost mamma;
Each rogue, repentant,
melts his stern papa;
Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid,

The cheats are taken in the traps they laid;
One after one the troubles
all are past
Till the fifth act comes right side up at last,
When the
young couple, old folks, rogues, and all,
Join hands, so happy at the
curtain's fall.
Here suffering virtue ever finds relief,
And
black-browed ruffians always come to grief.
When the lorn damsel,
with a frantic screech,
And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach,

Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven! " and drops upon her knees
On the
green--baize,--beneath the (canvas) trees,--
See to her side avenging
Valor fly:--
"Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!"

When the poor hero flounders in despair,
Some dear lost uncle turns
up millionaire,
Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy,
Sobs
on his neck, "My boy! MY BOY!! MY BOY!!!"

Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night,
Of love that
conquers in disaster's spite.
Ladies, attend! While woful cares and
doubt
Wrong the soft passion in the world without,
Though fortune
scowl, though prudence interfere,
One thing is certain: Love will
triumph here!
Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,--
The
world's great masters, when you 're out of school,--
Learn the brief
moral of our evening's play
Man has his will,--but woman has her
way!
While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire,
Woman's swift
instinct threads the electric wire,--
The magic bracelet stretched
beneath the waves
Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.

All earthly powers confess your sovereign art
But that one
rebel,--woman's wilful heart.
All foes you master, but a woman's wit

Lets daylight through you ere you know you 're hit.
So, just to
picture what her art can do,
Hear an old story, made as good as new.
Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade,
Alike was famous for his
arm and blade.
One day a prisoner Justice had to kill
Knelt at the
block to test the artist's skill.
Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and
shaggy-browed,
Rudolph