City Ballads Part 8

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 Earth's remotest hiding-place?

Did he see the flags of steam O'er the cities flash and gleam?

To his vision, like a star, Did the light-house gleam afar, Which another eye should be To the traveller of the sea?

If Prometheus, tortured--bound-- Knew the blessings man had found, Then his sufferings must have been Soothed by blessings from within.

When Prometheus stole the flame, Did he know what with it came?

Did he see the fire up-steal, Rise, and take its midnight meal?

Did he view the palace wall Stumble 'mid the smoke and fall?

Did he see some cherished home Feed a fiery ocean's foam?

Did he hear the war-alarms Of a nation called to arms, And behold men, in their ire, Murdering men with bolts of fire?

Did some miscreant cross his sight, Bent on booty or on spite, Stealing steps into the dark, With the incendiary spark?

Did there, faint and haggard, rise Ghosts before his startled eyes, G.o.dly men of scathless name, Felled for fuel to the flame; In a short-lived earthly h.e.l.l Thrown, for voicing heaven too well?

If he knew that glittering thing Would to Earth such curses bring, Then his sufferings may have been Edged with poison from within.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

MARCH 20, 18--.

Somehow, the fire I saw not long ago Has subsequently chased me, high and low; Runs back and forth betwixt my head and heart, And shows no disposition to depart.

And so I've wandered 'round (too much, perhaps), And got acquainted with the fireman chaps, And planted good cigars where they would seem Inclined to grow up helpful to my scheme.

(I never smoke; but, travelling near and far, There's few things help one like a good cigar; When safe between a neighbor's teeth 'tis hung, It oils his ways and loosens up his tongue.

I get more from cigars, before it's through, Than all the fellows that I give them to.

Perhaps they should not smoke; but, if they will, My method helps their families foot the bill.)

Not long ago a st.u.r.dy fireman lad, Who smoked up every last cigar I had, Unrolled the following story to my view, Which I believe (conditionally) true:

"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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE BEGGED THAT HORSE'S PARDON UPON HIS BENDED KNEES."]

But when, be't day or night time, he heard the alarm-bell ring, He'd rush for his place in the harness with a regular tiger spring; An' watch, with nervous shivers, the clasp of buckle an' band, Until 'twas plainly evident he'd like to lend a hand.

An' when the word was given, away he would rush an' tear, As if a thousand witches was rumplin' up his hair, An' craze the other horses with his magnetic charm, Till every hoof-beat sounded a regular fire-alarm!

Never a horse a jockey would notice an' admire Like Flash in front of his engine a-runnin' to a fire; Never a horse so lazy, so dawdlin', an' so slack, As Flash upon his return trip, a-drawin' the engine back.

Now, when the different horses gets tender-footed an' old, They're no use in our business; so Flash was finally sold To quite a respectable milkman, who found it not so fine A-bossin' one o' G.o.d's creatures outside it's natural line.

Seems as if I could see Flash a-mopin' along here now, Feelin' that he was simply a.s.sistant to a cow; But sometimes he'd imagine he heard the alarm-bell's din, An' jump an' rear for a season before they could hold him in;

An' once, in spite o' his master, he strolled in 'mongst us chaps, To talk with the other horses, of former fires, perhaps; Whereat the milkman kicked him; whereat, us boys to please, He begged that horse's pardon upon his bended knees.

But one day, for a big fire as we was makin' a dash, Both o' the horses we had on somewhat resemblin' Flash, Yellin' an' ringin' an' rushin', with excellent voice an' heart, We pa.s.sed the poor old fellow, a-tuggin' away at his cart.

If ever I see an old hoss grow upward into a new-- If ever I see a milkman whose traps behind him flew, 'Twas that old hoss, a-rearin' an' racin' down the track, An' that respectable milkman a-tryin' to hold him back.

Away he rushed like a cyclone for the head o' "Number Three,"

Gained the lead, an' kept it, an' steered his journey free; Dodgin' wagons an' horses, an' still on the keenest "silk,"

An' furnishin' all that neighborhood with good, respectable milk.

Crowd a-yellin' an' runnin', an' vainly hollerin' "Whoa!"

Milkman bracin' an' sawin', with never a bit o' show; Firemen laughin' an' chucklin', an' shoutin' "Good! go in!"

Hoss a-gettin' down to it, an' sweepin' along like sin.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AWAY HE RUSHED LIKE A CYCLONE FOR THE HEAD O'

'NUMBER THREE.'"]

Finally came where the fire was--halted with a "thud;"

Sent the respectable milkman heels over head in mud; Watched till he see the engines properly workin' there, After which he relinquished all interest in the affair.

Moped an' wilted an' dawdled, "faded away" once more, Took up his old occupation--considerin' life a bore; Laid down in his harness, an'--sorry I am to say-- The milkman he had drawn there took his dead body away.

That's the whole o' my story: I've seen, more'n once or twice, That poor dead animals' actions is full o' human advice; An' if you ask what Flash taught, I'll simply answer, then, That poor old horse was a symbol of some intelligent men.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

An' if, as some consider, there's animals in the sky, I think the poor old fellow is gettin' another try; But if he should sniff the big fire that plagues the abode o' sin, It'll take the strongest angel to hold the old fellow in.

MARCH 20, 18--.

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, And seemed to plan less how to put them out Than to get something new to write about.

He struck a rhyme I think isn't over bad, About a "fire" our little village had (Or city; for that town took city airs Before its village short-clothes reached repairs).

I found a copy of it t'other day Where he had laid it carefully away, To keep me from not finding it (he meant To get it back in the next check I sent).

'Twill cost me several dollars yet, I fear;-- I'll paste the fellow's nonsense right in here:

HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE.

I.