Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/377

 1840-50.] P H (E B E GARY. 361 Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins ! But her eager eyes rekindle. What has got you in such scrape ? She forgets the pies and bread. 'Tis a tear that falls to glitter As she sees a man on horseback, On the ruffle of her cape. Round the corner of the shed. Ah ! the eye of love may brighten, Now tie on another apron. To be certain what it sees, Get the comb and smooth your hair, One man looks much like another, 'Tis the sorrel horse that gallops. When half hidden by the trees. 'Tis John Jackson's self that's there ! A PSALM OF LIFE. Tell me not in idle jingle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Marriage is an empty dream, ^ Be a woman, be a wife ! For the girl is dead that's single. And things are not what they seem. • Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Married life is real, earnest ; Act, — act in the living Present : Single blessedness a fib ; Heart within, and Man ahead ! Ta'en from man, to man returnest, Has been spoken of the rib. Lives of married folks remind us We can live our lives as well, Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, And, departing, leave behind us Is our destined end or way ; Such examples as will tell ; — But to act, that each to-morrow Nearer brings the wedding-day. Such examples, that another, Sailing far from Hymen's port. Life is long, and youth is fleeting. A forlorn, unmarried brother. And our hearts, if there we search, Seeing, shall take heart and court. Still like steady drums are beating Anxious marches to the church. Let us then be up and doing, With the heart and head begin ; In the world's broad field of battle, Still achieving, still pursuing. In the bivouac of life, Learn to labor, and to win ! THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and darkness That shall soothe this restless feeling, From the wing of night is loos'd, And banish the pain I feel. As a feather is wafted downward From a chicken going to roost. Not from the pastry baker's. Not from the shops for cake, I see the lights of the baker I wouldn't give a farthing Gleam through the rain and mist. For all that they can make. And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me. That I cannot well resist. For, like the soup at dinner. Such things would but suggest A feeling of sadness and longing. Some dishes more substantial. That is not like being sick, And to-night I want the best. And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick Go to some honest butcher. Whose beef is fresh and nice Come, get for me some supper, — As any they have in the city, A good and regular meal. And get a liberal slice.