Poems from The Teacups | Page 3

long
They smell of brimstone uncommon strong;
But
they've gained by being left alone,--
Just look, and you'll see how tall
they've grown."
"And where is my cat?" a vixen squalled.
"Yes,
where are our cats?" the witches bawled,
And began to call them all
by name
As fast as they called the cats, they came
There was
bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim,
And wall-eyed Jacky and
green-eyed Jim,
And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau,
And

Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,
And many another that came
at call,--
It would take too long to count them all.
All black,--one
could hardly tell which was which,
But every cat knew his own old
witch;
And she knew hers as hers knew her,--
Ah, didn't they curl
their tails and purr!
No sooner the withered hags were free
Than out they swarmed for a
midnight spree;
I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes,
But the Essex
people had dreadful times.
The Swampscott fishermen still relate

How a strange sea-monster stole their bait;
How their nets were
tangled in loops and knots,
And they found dead crabs in their
lobster-pots.
Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops,
And
Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops.
A blight played havoc
with Beverly beans,--
It was all the work of those hateful queans!
A
dreadful panic began at "Pride's,"
Where the witches stopped in their
midnight rides,
And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms

'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.
Now when the Boss of the Beldams found
That without his leave
they were ramping round,
He called,--they could hear him twenty
miles,
From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles;
The deafest old
granny knew his tone
Without the trick of the telephone.
"Come
here, you witches! Come here!" says he,--
"At your games of old,
without asking me!
I'll give you a little job to do
That will keep you
stirring, you godless crew!"
They came, of course, at their master's call,
The witches, the
broomsticks, the cats, and all;
He led the hags to a railway train
The
horses were trying to drag in vain.
"Now, then," says he, "you've had
your fun,
And here are the cars you've got to run.
The driver may
just unhitch his team,
We don't want horses, we don't want steam;

You may keep your old black cats to hug,
But the loaded train you've
got to lug."

Since then on many a car you 'll see
A broomstick plain as plain can
be;
On every stick there's a witch astride,--
The string you see to her
leg is tied.
She will do a mischief if she can,
But the string is held
by a careful man,
And whenever the evil-minded witch
Would cut
some caper, he gives a twitch.
As for the hag, you can't see her,
But
hark! you can hear her black cat's purr,
And now and then, as a car
goes by,
You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.
Often you've looked on a rushing train,
But just what moved it was
not so plain.
It couldn't be those wires above,
For they could neither
pull nor shove;
Where was the motor that made it go
You couldn't
guess, but now you know.
Remember my rhymes when you ride again
On the rattling rail by the
broomstick train!
TARTARUS
WHILE in my simple gospel creed
That "God is Love" so plain I read,

Shall dreams of heathen birth affright
My pathway through the
coming night?
Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale
Fill with their
threats the shadowy vale,
With Thee my faltering steps to aid,
How
can I dare to be afraid?
Shall mouldering page or fading scroll
Outface the charter of the soul?

Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect
The wrong our human hearts
reject,
And smite the lips whose shuddering cry
Proclaims a cruel
creed a lie?
The wizard's rope we disallow
Was justice once,--is
murder now!
Is there a world of blank despair,
And dwells the Omnipresent there?

Does He behold with smile serene
The shows of that unending
scene,
Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies,
And, ever dying,
never dies?
Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan,

And is that child
of wrath his own?

O mortal, wavering in thy trust,
Lift thy pale forehead from the dust!

The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes
Fade ere they reach the
o'erarching skies
When the blind heralds of despair
Would bid thee
doubt a Father's care,
Look up from earth, and read above
On
heaven's blue tablet, GOD IS LOVE!
AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD
THE glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume,
The purple-hued
asters still linger in bloom
The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are
red,
The maples like torches aflame overhead.
But what if the joy of the summer is past,
And winter's wild herald is
blowing his blast?
For me dull November is sweeter than May,
For
my love is its sunshine,--she meets me to-day!
Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest?
Will the needle
swing back from the east or the west?
At the stroke of the hour she
will be at her gate;
A friend may prove laggard,--love never comes
late.
Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet.
Too early! Too early! She
could not forget!
When I cross the old bridge where the brook
overflowed,
She will flash full in sight