Shapes of Clay Part 28

BEECHER.

So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too-- Great as a giant organ is, whose reeds Hold in them all the souls of all the creeds That man has ever taught and never knew.

When on this mighty instrument He laid His hand Who fas.h.i.+oned it, our common moan Was suppliant in its thundering. The tone Grew more vivacious when the Devil played.

No more those luring harmonies we hear, And lo! already men forget the sound.

They turn, retracing all the dubious ground O'er which it led them, pigwise, by the ear.

NOT GUILTY.

"I saw your charms in another's arms,"

Said a Grecian swain with his blood a-boil; "And he kissed you fair as he held you there, A willing bird in a serpent's coil!"

The maid looked up from the cinctured cup Wherein she was crus.h.i.+ng the berries red, Pain and surprise in her honest eyes-- "It was only one o' those G.o.ds," she said.

PRESENTIMENT.

With saintly grace and reverent tread, She walked among the graves with me; Her every foot-fall seemed to be A benediction on the dead.

The guardian spirit of the place She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn Surprised in the untimely morn She made with her resplendent face.

Moved by some waywardness of will, Three paces from the path apart She stepped and stood--my prescient heart Was stricken with a pa.s.sing chill.

The folk-lore of the years agone Remembering, I smiled and thought: "Who shudders suddenly at naught, His grave is being trod upon."

But now I know that it was more Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, I did not think such little feet Could make a buried heart so sore!

A STUDY IN GRAY.

I step from the door with a s.h.i.+ver (This fog is uncommonly cold) And ask myself: What did I give her?-- The maiden a trifle gone-old, With the head of gray hair that was gold.

Ah, well, I suppose 'twas a dollar, And doubtless the change is correct, Though it's odd that it seems so much smaller Than what I'd a right to expect.

But you pay when you dine, I reflect.

So I walk up the street--'twas a saunter A score of years back, when I strolled From this door; and our talk was all banter Those days when her hair was of gold, And the sea-fog less searching and cold.

I b.u.t.ton my coat (for I'm shaken, And fevered a trifle, and flushed With the wine that I ought to have taken,) Time was, at this coat I'd have blushed, Though truly, 'tis cleverly brushed.

A score? Why, that isn't so very Much time to have lost from a life.

There's reason enough to be merry: I've not fallen down in the strife, But marched with the drum and the fife.

If Hope, when she lured me and beckoned, Had pushed at my shoulders instead, And Fame, on whose favors I reckoned, Had laureled the worthiest head, I could garland the years that are dead.

Believe me, I've held my own, mostly Through all of this wild masquerade; But somehow the fog is more ghostly To-night, and the skies are more grayed, Like the locks of the restaurant maid.

If ever I'd fainted and faltered I'd fancy this did but appear; But the climate, I'm certain, has altered-- Grown colder and more austere Than it was in that earlier year.

The lights, too, are strangely unsteady, That lead from the street to the quay.

I think they'll go out--and I'm ready To follow. Out there in the sea The fog-bell is calling to me.

A PARADOX.

"If life were not worth having," said the preacher, "'T would have in suicide one pleasant feature."

"An error," said the pessimist, "you're making: What's not worth having cannot be worth taking."

FOR MERIT.

To Parmentier Parisians raise A statue fine and large: He cooked potatoes fifty ways, Nor ever led a charge.

"_Palmam qui meruit"_--the rest You knew as well as I; And best of all to him that best Of sayings will apply.

Let meaner men the poet's bays Or warrior's medal wear; Who cooks potatoes fifty ways Shall bear the palm--de terre.

A BIT OF SCIENCE.

What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dream And he who dreams it is not overwise, If colors are vibration they but seem, And have no being. But if Tyndall lies, Why, come, then--photograph my lady's eyes.

Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue, As on my own beclouded orbs they rest, To naught but vibratory motion's due, As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest.

How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making In me so uncontrollable a shaking?

THE TABLES TURNED.