Part 2 (1/2)

I.

Thou shrill-voiced cricket there In yonder corner, Thou remindest me Of joys departed, and of fair And fallen summer. O little mourner, Cease thy pensive fluting, Lest a flood of melancholy, Sad as thine, That to my heart is suiting, Encompa.s.s me--it is unholy Thus to pine For fallen joys or days departed, E'en though thou art so broken-hearted, For moments are divine.

II.

Silent art thou?--thanks to thee, O little cricket Underneath my chair; Thanks to thee--yet would I see Thy shadow less--out to yon thicket!

There let thy dull repining Drive where the winds are driven, Nor deign to bring Thy sorrows back--let such be given To those in shades reclining Who love to sing, With thee, of dear departed Summer, And hear again her sad funereal drummer, Thou little, mournful thing.

III.

One moment stay--why comest thou With doleful ditty Unbidden to my room; Wee, dusky mourner, do not go, But say--what is it claims thy pity, And sets thee telling, telling Such a solemn story So to me, As if there knelling, knelling Of some departed glory Dear to thee?

O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle, And admit life is a riddle, And Heaven holds the key.

IV.

Thou mindest not; for hark!--again Resounds thy racket Shriller than before; Singst thou this sad strain As if befitting to thy ebon jacket, With carvings curious, And a color glossy, Like old wine-- Tiny thing, be not so furious And uneedful noisy; Cease to pine For something fled--for joys or hopes departed, Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted, O mourner most divine.

IN PRAISE OF INEZ.

Sweet Inez, would that I might pledge My thoughts to thee with line on line, And prove, if tender words can prove, That all my tender thoughts are thine.

Would that my feeble pen might pluck From the green fields of poetry, Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deck Thy name so near, so dear to me.

Would that my hand might gather here From the sweet fields of tender thought, Some blossom, fragrant as the rose, Some lily, lovely as I ought.

But why should I commit a sin By wis.h.i.+ng any flower for thee; Thou art more beautiful, I know, Than all the flowers of poetry.

What shall I then with thee compare, To make a true comparison-- The dawning day, the dying light, The rising or the setting sun?

At morn I see the early sun Appear with glory in her eye, But looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee, for thee sigh.

At noon I see that fervid orb Proclaim the sultry hour of day, But looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee, turn away.

At length I see that same bright sun Descend below the western blue, Yet looking there, I think of thee, And thinking of thee love thee, too.

Fade then, ye flowers of the field, And sink, ye dying beams of light, But let, O let my Inez be Forever present to my sight.

THE CRIME OF CHRISTMASTIME.

I.

Two thousand years!--two thousand years Since Mary, with a mother's fears, Brought forth for all humanities The Christian of the centuries; And now men turn from toil away To celebrate his natal day By feasting happy hours away And giving gifts with lavish hand, Throughout the length of every land;-- A n.o.ble custom n.o.bly born In Bethlehem one holy morn, But intermingling with the good, A pagan custom long has stood, As you and I and all may see-- This war against the greenwood tree, This robbing of posterity,-- Until the burden of my rhyme Is of this crime of Christmastime.