The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe

Front matter

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Contents

Poems.

The Poet’s License Treasure in Heaven I’m Growing Old The Story of Life My Castle in Spain Spes est Vates .

The Gifts of the Gods The Old Chapel-Bell Compensation ae The Old Man’s Motto Maximilian. ...

I

Every coin of earthly treasure We have lavished, upon earth, For our simple worldly pleasure, May be reckoned something worth; For the spending was not losing, Though the purchase were but small ; It has perished with the using : We have had it, — that is all!

II

All the gold we leave behind us, When we turn to dust again (Though our avarice may blind us), We have gathered quite in vain ; Since we neither can direct it, By the winds of fortune tossed, Nor in other worlds expect it : What we hoarded, we have lost.

IIl.

But each merciful oblation — (Seed of pity wisely sown), What we gave in self-negation,

We may safely call our own; For the treasure freely given

Is the treasure that we hoard, Since the angels keep in heaven

What is lent unto the Lord!

2 . MY CASTLE IN SPAIN.

I ’M GROWING OLD.

My days pass pleasantly away ;

My nights are blest with sweetest

sleep ;

I feel no symptoms of decay;

I have no cause to mourn nor weep ; My foes are impotent and shy,

My friends are neither false nor cold, And yet, of late, I often sigh, —

I’m growing old!

My growing talk of olden times, My growing thirst for early news, My growing apathy to rhymes, My growing love of easy shoes, My growing hate of crowds and noise, My growing fear of taking cold, All whisper, in the plainest voice, I’m growing old!

1’m growing fonder of my staff;

I’m growing dimmer in the eyes; I’m growing fainter in my laugh ;

I’m growing deeper in my sighs; I’m growing careless of my dress ;

I’m growing frugal of my gold; I’m growing wise; I’m growing, —

es, — 2 I’m growing old!

I see it in my changing taste ; I see it in my changing hair; I see it in my growing waist ; I see it in my growing heir; A thousand signs proclaim the truth, As plain as truth was ever told, That, even in my vaunted youth, I’m growing old!

Ah me! my very laurels breathe The tale in my reluctant ears, And every boon the Hours bequeath But makes me debtor to the Years ! E’en Flattery’s honeyed words declare The secret she would fain withhold, And tells me in “ How young you are!” I’m growing old!

Thanks for the years! — whose rapid flight My sombre Muse too sadly sings ; Thanks for the gleams of golden light That tint the darkness of their wings ; The light that beams from out the sky, Those heavenly mansions to unfold

Where all are blest, and none may sigh, “T’m growing old!”

—~— THE STORY OF LIFE.

Say, what is life! ’T is to be born; A helpless Babe, to greet the light With a sharp wail, as if the morn Foretold a cloudy noon and night ; To weep, to sleep, and weep again, With sunny smiles between; and then*

And then apace the infant grows

To be a laughing, puling boy, Happy, despite his little woes,

Were he but conscious of his joy ; To be, in short, from two to ten, A merry, moody Child ; and then?

And then, in coat and trousers clad, To learn to say the Decalogne,

And break it; an unthinking Zad, With mirth and mischief all agog;

A truant oft by field and fen

To capture butterflies ; and then ?

And then, increased in strength and size, To be, anon, a Youth full-grown ; A hero in his mother’s eyes, A young Apollo in his own ; To imitate the ways of men In fashionable sins; and then ?

And then, at last, to be a Man; To fall in love ; to woo and wed; With seething brain to scheme and plan ;

To gather gold, or toil for bread ; To sue for fame with tongue or pen, And gain or lose the prize; and then?

And then in gray and wrinkled Eid To mourn the speed of life’s decline ; To praise the scenes his youth beheld, And dwell in memory of Lang-Syne ; To dream awhile with darkened ken, Then drop into his grave; and then?

—_@—— MY CASTLE IN SPAIN.

THERE ’S a castle in Spain, very charm ing to see, Though built without money or toi]

THE GIFTS OF THE GODS. 3

Of scape estate I am owner in ee And paramount lord of the soil ; And oft as I may I’m accustomed to go And live, like a king, in my Spanish Chateau !

There ’s a dame most bewitchingly rounded and ripe, Whose wishes are never absurd ; Who does n’t object to my smoking a pipe, Nor insist on the ultimate word ; In short, she ’s the pink of perfection, you know ; And she lives, like a queen, in my Spanish Chateau !

I ’ve a family too; the delightfulest girls, And a bevy of beautiful boys ; All quite the reverse of those juvenile churls Whose pleasure is mischief and noise ; No modern Cornelia might venture to show Such jewels as those in my Spanish Chateau !

I have servants who seek their contentment in mine, And always mind what they are at ; Who never embezzle the sugar and wine, And slander the innocent cat ; Neither saucy, nor careless, nor stupidly slow Are the servants who wait in my Spanish Chateau !

I have pleasant companions ; most affable folk, And each with the heart of a brother ; Keen wits, who enjoy an antagonist’s joke, And beauties who ’re fond of each other ; Such people, indeed, as you never may know, Unless you should come to my Spanish Ghatean !

I have friends, whose commission for wearing the name In kindness unfailing is shown ; Who pay to another the duty they claim, And deem his successes their own ;

Who joy in his gladness, and weep at his woe;

You ’Il find them (where else?) in my Spanish Chateau !

“ O si sic semper!” I oftentimes say (Though ’t is idle, I know, to complain), To think that again I must force me away From my beautiful castle in Spain! Ah! would that my stars had determined it so I might live the year round in my Spanish Chateau !

ps SPES EST VATES.

THERE is a saying of the ancient sages: No noble human thought,

However buried in the dust of ages, Can ever come to naught.

With kindred faith, that knows no base dejection, Beyond the sages’ scope I see, afar, the final resurrection Of every glorious hope.

I see, as parcel of a new creation, The beatific hour

When every bud of lofty aspiration Shall blossom into flower.

We are not mocked; it was not in de. rision God made our spirits free ; The poet’s dreams are but the dim prevision

Of blessings that shall be, —

When they who lovingly have hoped and trusted, Despite some transient fears, Shall see Life’s jarring elements ad: justed, And rounded into spheres !

ae eae THE GIFTS OF THE GODS.

THE saying is wise, though it sounds like a jest,

That “ The gods don’t allow us to be in their debt,”

4 THE OLD CHAPEL-BELL.

For though we may think we are spe- | But surely in Friendship we all may cially blest.

We are certain to pay for the favors we get !

Are Riches the boon ? elate ; The final account isn’t settled as

Nay, be not et; Old et has a mortgage on every estate, And that’s what you pay for the wealth that you get!

Is Honor the prize? It were easy to name What sorrows and perils her pathway beset ; Grim Hate and Detraction accompany Fame, And that’s what you pay for the honor you get!

Is Learning a treasure? How charming the pair

When Talent and Culture are lovingly met;

But Labor unceasing is grievous to bear, And that’s what you pay for the learning you get!

Is Genius worth having? ‘There is n’t a doubt ;

And yet what a price on the blessing is set, —

To suffer more with it than dunces without,

And that’s what you pay for the

genius you get!

Is Beauty a blessing? To have it for nought

The gods never grant to their veriest pet ; Pale Envy reminds you the jewel is bought, And that’s what you pay for the beauty you get! .

But Pleasure? Alas!—how prolific of pain!

Gay Pleasure is followed by gloomy Regret ; And often Repentance is one of her train,

And that ’s what you pay for the pleasure you get!

secure An excellent gift; never doubt it, — and yet With much to enjoy there is much to endure, And that’s what we pay for the friendship we get !

But then there is Love? — Nay, speak not too soon ; The fondest of hearts may have reason to fret ; For Fear and Bereavement attend on the boon, And that ’s what we pay for the love that we get!

And thus it appears — though it sounds like a jest — The gods don’t allow us to be in their debt ; And though we may think we are specially blest, We are certain to pay for whatever we get!

—¢———

THE OLD CHAPEL-BELL.

A BALLAD.

Wiruin a churchyard’s sacred ground, Whose fading tablets tell

Where they who built the village church In solemn silence dwell,

Half hidden in the earth, there lies An ancient Chapel-Bell.

Broken, decayed, and covered o’er With mouldering leaves and rust ;

Its very name and date concealed Beneath a cankering crust ;

Forgotten, — like its early friends, Who sleep in neighboring dust.

Yet it was once a trusty Bell, Of most sonorous lung,

And many a joyous wedding-peal And many a knell had rung,

Ere Time had cracked its brazen sides, And broke its iron tongue.

And many a youthful heart had danced, In merry Christmas-time,

To hear its pleasant roundelay, Sung out in ringing rhyme ;

if aes lal

Coa

** And many a youthful heart had danced, In merry Christmas time.’’ Page 4.

THE OLD CHAPEL-BELL. 5

And many a worldly thought been checked To list its sabbath chime.

A youth —a bright and happy boy — ne sultry summer’s day, Aweary of his bat and ball, Chanced hitherward to stray, To read a little book he had, And rest him from his play.

*¢ A soft and shady spot is this!” The rosy youngster cried,

And sat him down beneath a tree, That ancient Bell beside ;

(But, hidden in the tangled grass, The Bell he ne’er espied.)

Anon, a mist fell on his book, The letters seemed to stir, And though, full oft, his flagging sight The boy essayed to spur, The mazy page was quickly lost Beneath a cloudy blur.

And while he marveled much at this, And wondered how it came,

He felt a languor creeping o’er His young and weary frame,

And heard a voice, a gentle voice, That plainly spoke his name.

That gentle voice that named his name Entranced him like a spell

Upon his ear so very pear And suddenly it fell,

Yet soft and musical, as ’t were The whisper of a bell.

* Since last I spoke,” the voice began, ‘‘Seems many a dreary year !

(Albeit, ’t is only since thy birth I’ve lain neglected here! )

Pray list, while I rehearse a tale Behooves thee much to hear.

“Once, from yon ivied tower, I watched The villagers around,

And gave to all their joys and griefs A sympathetic sound, —

But most are sleeping, now, within This consecrated ground.

“T used to ring my merriest peal To hail the blushing bride ;

I sadly tolled for men cut down In strength and manly pride;

And solemnly, — not mournfully, — When little children died.

“ But, chief, my duty was to bid The villagers repair,

On each returning sabbath morn Unto the House of Prayer,

And in his own appointed place The Saviour’s mercy share.

“Ah! well I mind me of a child, A gleesome, happy maid, Who came, with constant step, to church, In comely garb arrayed, And knelt her down full solemnly, And penitently prayed.

‘And oft, when church was done, I marked That little maiden near This pleasant spot, with book in hand, As you are sitting here, — She read the Story of the Cross, And wept with grief sincere.

“Years rolled away, — and I beheld The child to woman grown ;

Her cheek was fairer, and her eye With brighter lustre shone ;

But childhood’s truth and innocence Were still the maiden’s own.

“TI never rang a merrier peal Than when, a joyous bride,

She stood beneath the sacred poreh, A noble youth beside,

And plighted him her maiden troth, In maiden love and pride.

“T never tolled a deeper knell, Than when, in after years,

They laid her in the churchyard here, Where this low mound appears, —

(The very grave, my boy, that you Are watering now with tears !)

“Tt is thy mother! gentle boy, That claims this tale of mine, —

Thou art a flower whose fatal birth Destroyed the parent vine !

A precious flower art thou, my child, ~ Two LIVES WERE GIVEN FOR THINB!

“One was thy sainted mother’s, when She gave thee mortal birth ;

And one thy Saviour’s, when in death He shook the solid earth ;

Go! boy, and live as may befit Thy life’s exceeding worth !”

The boy awoke, as from a dream, And, thoughtful, looked around,

But nothing saw, save at his feet His mother’s lowly mound,

And by its side that ancient Bell, Half hidden in the ground!

abla he

COMPENSATION.

I

WHEN once, in “Merrie England,” A prisoner of state Stood waiting death or exile, Submissive to his fate, He made this famous answer, — “ Si longa, levis ; Si dura, brevis ; Go tell your tyrant chief, Long pains are light ones, Cruel ones are brief!”

II.

Alas ! we all are culprits ; Our bodies doomed to bear Discomforts and diseases, And none may ’scape his share ; But God in pity orders, Si longa, levis ; Si dura, brevis ; He grants us this relief, Long pains are light ones, Cruel ones are brief.

III

Nor less the mind must suffer Its weight of care and woe, Afflictions and bereavements Itself can only know ; But let us still remember, Si longa, levis ; St dura, brevis ; To moderate our grief, — Long pains are light ones, Cruel ones are brief.

——¢—— THE OLD MAN’S MOTTO. *GIVE me a motto!” said a youth

To one whom years had rendered wise ;

MAXIMILIAN.

“Some pleasant thought, or weighty truth, That briefest syllables comprise ; Some word of warning or of cheer To grave upon my signet here.

“ And, reverend father,” said the boy, ‘Since life, they say, is ever made A mingled web of grief and joy, Since cares may come and pleasures fade, — Pray, let the motto have a range Of meaning matching every change.”

“ Sooth! ” said the sire, “ methinks you ask A labor something over-nice, That well a finer brain might task. What think you, lad, of this device (Older than I, though I am gray), *T is simple, — ‘ This will pass away ’ ?

“When wafted on by Fortune’s breeze, In endless peace thou seem’st to glide, Prevare betimes for rougher seas, And check the boast of foolish pride ; Though smiling joy is thine to-day, Remember, ‘ This will pass away !?

“When all the sky is draped in black, And, beaten by tempestuous gales, Thy shuddering ship seems all a-

wrack, Then trim again thy tattered sails ; To grim Despair be not a prey ; Bethink thee, ‘ This will pass away !’”

“Thus, O my son, be not o’er-proud, Nor yet cast down; judge thou aright ; When skies are clear, expect the cloud; In darkness, wait the coming light ; Whatever be thy fate to-day, Remember, ‘ This will pass away !’”

<n

~-

MAXIMILIAN.

Nort with a craven spirit he

Submitted to the harsh decree

That bade him die before his time,

Cut off in manhood’s golden prime, — Poor Maximilian !

And some who marked his noble mien,

His dauntless heart, his soul serene,

THE WAY OF THE WORLD. vf

Have deemed they saw a martyr die, And chorused forth the solemn cry, “Great Maximilian!”

Alas! Ambition was his sin ;

He staked his life a throne to win;

Counted amiss the fearful cost

(As chiefs have done before), — and lost! Rash Maximilian!

*T is not the victim’s tragic fate,

Nor calm endurance, makes him great ;

Mere lust of empire and renown

Can never claim the martyr’s crown, Brave Maximilian !

Alas! it fell, that, in thy aim

To win a sovereign’s power and fame,

Thy better nature lost its force,

And royal crimes disgraced thy course, King Maximilian !

Alas! what ground for mercy’s plea

In his behalf, whose fell decree

Gave soldiers unto felons’ graves,

And freemen to the doom of slaves, — Fierce Maximilian ?

I loathe the rude, barbaric wrath That slew thee in thy vent’rous path ; But “ they who take,” thus saith the Lord, “ Shall also perish by the sword,” Doomed Maximilian !

But, when I think upon the scene, — Thy fearful fate, thy wretched queen, — And mark how bravely thou didst die, I breathe again the pitying sigh,

“Poor Maximilian ! ”

———— WISHING.

Or all amusements for the mind, From logic down to fishing, There is n’t one that you can find So very cheap as “ wishing.” A very choice diversion too, If we but rightly use it, And not, as we are apt to do, Pervert it, and abuse it.

I wish, —a common wish, indeed, — My purse were somewhat fatter, That I might cheer the child of need,

Aud not my pride to flatter ;

That I might make Oppression reel, As only gold can make it,

And break the Tyrant’s rod of steel, As only gold can break it.

I wish — that Sympathy and Love, And every human passion

That has its origin above, Would come and keep in fashion ;

That Scorn, and Jealousy, and Hate, And every base emotion,

Were buried fifty fathom deep Beneath the waves of Ocean !

I wish — that friends were always trug, And motives always pure ; I wish the good were not so few, I wish the bad were fewer ; I wish that parsons ne’er forgot To heed their pious teaching ; I wish that practicing was not So different from preaching !

I wish — that modest worth might be Appraised with truth and candor ;

I wish that innocence were free From treachery and slander ;

I wish that men their vows would mind; That women ne’er were rovers ;

I wish that wives were always kind, And husbands always lovers! |

I wish — in fine — that Joy and Mirth, And every good Ideal,

May come erewhile, throughout the

earth,

To be the glorious Real ;

Till God shall every creature bless With his supremest blessing,

And Hope be lost in Happiness, And wishing in Possessing !

——~——

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

I.

A youTH would marry a maiden, For fair and fond was she ; But she was rich, and he was poor, And so it might not be.

A lady never could wear — Her mother held tt firm — A gown that came of an India lant, Instead of an India worm. — And so the cruel word was spoken ; And so it was two hearts were broken

8 THE MOURNER A LA MODE.

II.

A youth would marry a maiden, For fair and fond was she ; But he was high and she was low, And so it might not be.

A man who had worn a spur, In ancient battle won, Had sent it down with great renown, To goad his future son !— And so the cruel word was spoken ; And so it was two hearts were broken.

Ill.

A youth would marry a maiden, For fair and fond was she ; But their sires disputed about the Mass, And so it might not be.

A couple of wicked kings, Three hundred years agone, Had played at a royal game of chess, And the Church had been a pawn! — And so the cruel word was spoken ; “nd so it was two hearts were broken.

—_— A POET’S ELEGY.

HERE rests, at last, from worldly care and strife, A gentle man-of-rhyme, Not all unknown to fame, — whose lays and life Fell short of the sublime.

Yet, as his poems (’t was the critics’ praise) Betrayed a careful mind, His life, with less of license than his lays, To Virtue was inclined.

Whate’er of Wit the kindly Muse supplied He ever strove to bend To Folly’s hurt; nor once with wanton pride Employed to pain a friend.

He loved a quip, but in his jesting vein With studious care effaced The doubtful word that threatened to profane The sacred or the chaste.

He loathed the covert, diabolic jeer That conscience undermines ;

No hinted sacrilege nor skeptic sneer Lurks in his laughing lines.

With satire’s sword to pierce the false and wrong ; A ballad to invent That bore a wholesome sermon in the song, — Such was the poet’s bent.

In social converse, “ happy as a king.” When colder men refrained From daring flights, he gave his fancy win And freedom unrestrained.

And golden thoughts, at times, — a motley brood, — Came flashing from the mine ; And fools who saw him in his merry mood Accused the untasted wine.

He valued friendship’s favor more than fame, And paid his social dues ; He loved his Art, — but held his manly name Far dearer than his Muse.

And partial friends, while gayly laughing o’er The merry lines they quote, Say with a sigh, “To us the man was more Than aught he ever wrote!”

—— oo THE MOURNER A LA MODE.

I saw her last night at a party (The elegant party at Mead’s), And looking remarkably hearty For a widow so young in her weeds; Yet I know she was suffering sorrow Too deep for the tongue to express, — Or why had she chosen to borrow So much from the language of dress?

Her shaw] was as sable as night ; And her gloves were as dark as her shawl ; And her jewels —that flashed in the light — Were black as a funeral pall;

THE HEAD AND THE HEART. g

Her robe had the hue of the rest, (How nicely it fitted her shape !) And the grief that was heaving her breast - Boiled over in billows of crape !

What tears of vicarious woe, That else might have sullied her face, Were kindly permitted to flow In ripples of ebony lace! While even her fan, in its play, Had quite a lugubrious scope, And seemed to be waving away The ghost of the angel of Hope!

Yet rich as the robes of a queen Was the sombre apparel she wore ; I’m certain I never had seen Such a sumptuous sorrow before ; And I could n’t help thinking the beauty, In mourning the loved and the lost, Was doing her conjugal duty Altogether regardless of cost !

One surely would say a devotion Performed at so vast an expense Betrayed an excess of emotion That was really something immense ; And yet as I viewed, at my leisure, Those tokens of tender regard, I thought : — It is scarce without measure — The sorrow that goes by the yard!

Ah! grief is a curious passion ; And yours—I am sorely afraid The very next phase of the fashion Will find it beginning to fade ; Though dark are the shadows of grief, The morning will follow the night, Half-tints will betoken relief, Till joy shall be symboled in white!

Ah well! it were idle to quarrel With Fashion, or aught she may do; And so I conclude with a moral And metaphor — warranted new : — When measles come handsomely out, The patient is safest, they say ; And the Sorrow is mildest, no doubt, That works in a similar way!

—— THE EXPECTED SHIP.

Tuvs I heard a poet say, As he sang in merry glee,

“Ah! ’t will be a golden day, When my ship comes o’er the sea!

“T do know a cottage fine, As a poet’s house should be,

And the cottage shall be mine, When my ship comes o’er the sea?

“TI do know a maiden fair,

Fair, and fond, and dear to me, And we ’ll be a wedded pair,

When my ship comes o’er the sea!

“ And within that cottage fine, Blest as any king may be, Every pleasure shall be mine, When my ship comes o’er the sea!

“To be rich is to be great ; Love is only for the free ;

Grant me patience, while I wait Till my ship comes o’er the sea!”

Months and years have come and gone Since the poet sang to me,

Yet he still keeps hoping on For the ship from o’er the sea!

Thus the siren voice of Hope Whispers still to you and me

Of something in the future’s scope, Some golden ship from o'er the sea!

Never sailor yet hath found, Looking windward or to lee, Any vessel homeward bound, Like that ship from o’er the sea!

Never comes the shining deck ; But that tiny cloud may be — Though it seems the merest speck — The promised ship from o’er the sea !

Never looms the swelling sail, But the wind is blowing free, And that may be the precious gale That brings the ship from o’er the sea !

nhs THE HEAD AND THE HEART

Tue head is stately, calm, and wise, And bears a princely part ;

And down below in secret lies The warm, impulsive heart,

The lordly head that sits above, The heart that beats below,

Their several office plainly preve, Their true relation show.

The head, erect, serene, and cool, Endowed with Reason’s art,

Was set aloft to guide and rule The throbbing, wayward heart.

And from the head, as from the higher, Comes every glorious thought ;

And in the heart’s transforming fire All noble deeds are wrought.

Yet each is best when both unite To make the man complete ;

What were the heat without the light ? The light, without the heat ?

ee | eee THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE.

A LEGEND OF GOTHAM.

I

O, TERRIBLY proud was Miss Mac- Bride, The very personification of Pride, As she minced along in Fashion’s tide, Adown Broadway,—on the proper side, — When the golden sun was setting ; There was pride in the head she carried so high, Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, And a world of pride in the very sigh That her stately bosom was fretting ;

II.

A sigh that a pair of elegant feet, Sandaled in satin, should kiss the street, — The very same that the vulgar greet In common leather not over “ neat,” — For such is the common booting ; (And Christian tears may well be shed, That even among our gentlemen bred, The glorious day of Morocco is dead, And Day and Martin are reigning instead, On a much inferior footing! ) -

III.

O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride,

THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE.

And proud of fifty matters beside, That would n’t have borne dissection 3 Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk, Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, Proud of “knowing cheese from chalk,” On a very slight inspection !

IV

Proud abroad, and proud at home, Proud wherever she chanced to come, When she was glad, and when she was glum ; Proud as the head of a Saracen Over the door of a tippling shop ! — Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop, “ Proud as a boy with a bran-new top,” Proud beyond comparison !

Ts

It seems a singular thing to say,

But her very senses led her astray Respecting all humility ; .

In sooth, her dull auricular drum

Could find in Humble only a “ hum,”

And heard no sound of “gentle” come, In talking about gentility.

VI

What Lowly meant she did n’t know, For he always avoided “everything ow,”

With care the most punctilious, And queerer still, the audible sound Of “super-silly ” she never had found In the adjective supercilious!

VII. The meaning of Meek she never knew

But imagined the phrase had something to do

With “ Moses,” —a peddling German

Jew, Who, like all hawkers the country through, Was a person of no position ; And it seemed to her exceedingly plain, If the word was really known to pertain To a vulgar German, it wasn’t ger mane To a lady of high condition !