English

" FLASH " THE FIREMAN'S STORY

" Flash " was a white-foot sorrel, an' run on Number Three:
Not much stable manners — an average horse to see;
Notional in his methods — strong in loves an' hates;
Not very much respected, or popular 'mongst his mates.

Dull an' moody an' sleepy, an' " off " on quiet days;
Full o' turbulent, sour looks, an' small sarcastic ways;
Scowled an' bit at his partner, an' banged the stable floor —
With other means intended to designate life a bore.

Speaking of fires, my powers of language fail;
They run them here upon so large a scale.
My son, Charles Sumner (who is, by-the-way.
In Europe — terms ten dollars by the day,
Paid strictly in advance), can rhyme somewhat,
And often seems to me to touch the spot,
And light the truth up with a healthier glare,
And make it truthfuller for his being there.
(But in such furrows human nature runs,
That old men aren't good critics for their sons.)
He used to rush (as youngsters often will)
To every fire we had at Tompkins Hill,

WHEN PROMETHEUS STOLE THE FLAME

When Prometheus stole the flame,
Did he know what with it came?
Did he look afar and see
All the blessings that would be?
Could he view the gentle gloam
Of the fireside of a home?
Or the centre-table's blaze,
Turning evenings into days,
Where encamped with quiet zest,
Happy children toil and rest?
Did he view the parlor's gleam,
Or the 'wildering palace-dream?
See the torch's floating glare
Burn its way through walls of air:
Or, through under-regions trace

DEAR C OUSIN J OHN :

We got here safe — my worthy wife an' me —
An' put up at James Sunnyhopes' — a pleasant place to be;
An' Isabel, his oldest girl, is home from school just now,
An' pets me with her manners all her young man will allow;
An' his good wife has monstrous sweet an' culinary ways:
It is a summery place to pass a few cold winter days.

Besides, I've various cast-iron friends in different parts o' town;
That's always glad to have me call whenever I come down;

IF I'D A HUNDRED MILLIONS

If I'd a hundred millions —
Just think! a hundred millions! —
What wouldn't I do — what couldn't I do —
If I'd a hundred millions?
From every forest's finest tree
My many-gabled house should be;
With silver threads from golden looms
Should be attired my palace-rooms;
My loaded table have the best
Of all the East and all the West;
My bed should be a daintier thing
Than ever sheltered queen or king;
What wouldn't I do,
What couldn't I do,

Wind in the north-east; snow in wagon-loads;
Good sleighing everywhere on all the roads.
Family healthy, sensible, and pleasant,
And each one got the proper Christmas-present.
(At least it seems so, for they all act suited,
And Santa Claus's taste hasn't been disputed.)
Our family room is filled with tasty mixings,
Of evergreens and other woman-fixings;
The open grate makes things look rich and mellow,
With good hard coals the fire has painted yellow;
Pictures peep from the walls, with thought all through them,

Now comes the Christmas-tide:
Love wakes on every side;
Mirth smiles from every eye;
Wreaths greet the passer-by.

Who, full of haughty pride,
Loves not the Christmas-tide?
He who, with av'rice low,
Cares not to joy bestow.

God save the wretch denied
Love for the Christmas-tide!
God tell his hardened heart
Pure joy must joy impart!

Who, close to grief allied,
Grieves 'mid the Christmas-tide?
She who, at Sorrow's call,
Now mourns the loss of all.

God save the dear bereft —

Pavement and window and wall —
What is the cost of you all?
Parlor and boudoir and stair,
Crowded with furniture rare;
Gems from the mountains and seas,
Spires that out-measure the trees;
Chamber and palace and hall —
What is the price of you all?

What did we cost? Bend ear;
What did we cost? Now hear.

Several millions men,
There in the field and fen.
Look! they are stripped and grim,
Sturdy of voice and limb,
Painfully, now, they toil

Wealth — wealth — wealth — wealth! I never had been led,
From all I'd thought and dreamed and heard and read,
To think so much wealth, in whatever while,
Could be raked up into one shining pile!
Not long ago, a hundred dollars clear,
Big as a hay-stack would to me appear;
When first a thousand dollars made me smile,
I sympathized with Craesus quite a while;
But looking round here makes me feel the same
As if I hadn't a nickel to my name!

Wealth — wealth! why, every acre I behold
Has cost a mine of Californi' gold!

Still through The City I ponder,
Still do I wonder and wander.
City — unconscious descendant
Of olden-time cities resplendent!
Child of rich forefathers hoary,
Clad in their gloom and their glory! —
Dream I of you in the rich, mellow past,
Throbbing with life, and with Death overcast.
Thebes — not to you, crushed and ghastly and dumb,
Even the wreck-loving Ivy will come!
Where stood your hundred broad, world-famous gates.
Now a black Arab for charity waits.
Not like this City — metropolis bold —