Part 9 (2/2)

And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!

JAFFAR

LEIGH HUNT

Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, Ordained that no man living, from that day, Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.

All Araby and Persia held their breath;

All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief (For his great heart wanted a great relief), Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square Where once had stood a happy house, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.

”Bring me this man,” the caliph cried; the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. ”Welcome, brave cords,” cried he, ”From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveliest household fears, Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?”

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could not fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great.

He said, ”Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still.

Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!”

”Gifts!” cried the friend; he took, and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, ”This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!”

JIM BLUDSOE[7]

JOHN HAY

Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives, Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludsoe pa.s.sed in his checks, The night of the Prairie Belle?

He warn't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike.

A careless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never flunked, and he never lied-- I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engine well; Never be pa.s.sed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire; A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ash.o.r.e.

All boats has their day on the Mississip', And her day came at last-- The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle, she wouldn't be pa.s.sed, And so came a-tearin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line, With a n.i.g.g.e.r squat on her safety-valve, And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire burst out as she cleared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned and made For that willer-bank on the right.

Ther' was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, ”I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ash.o.r.e.”

Thro' the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludsoe's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know'd he would keep his word.

And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell, And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone In the smoke of Prairie Belle.

He warn't no saint--but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim Longside of some pious gentleman That wouldn't shook hands with him.

He'd seen his duty, a dead sure thing, And went fer it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard On a man that died for men.

FOOTNOTE:

[7] By permission of Mrs. Hay.

KING ROBERT OF SICILY[8]

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

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