Debris Part 9

THE DIFFERENCE.

With odds all against him, struggling to gain, From fortune a name, with life to maintain, Toiling in sunshine, toiling in rain, Never waiting a blessing Heaven-sent, Working and winning his way as he went-- Whether he starved, or sumptuously fared, n.o.body knew and n.o.body cared.

With success-crowned effort that fate had defied, That wrought out from fortune what favor denied, Standing aloof from the world in his pride; The niche he has carved on fame's slippery wall Friends are proclaiming with heraldry-call.

His Croesus-bright scepter has magical sway, Yester's indifference solicits to-day.

His daring his triumph, how daily he fares, Every one knows, and anxiously cares.

BEWARE.

Beautiful maiden, So daintily fair, Thy rose-hued lips, Thy soft, flowing hair, Symmetric perfection, Sweet, winning face, The charms that thou wearest A palace might grace; And yet thy bright beauty May wreck and despair.

Beautiful maiden, Beware! oh, beware!

There are flattering tongues That 'twere death to believe, And loves who woo But to win and deceive; For innocent feet There is many a snare.

Beautiful maiden, Beware! oh, beware!

A REGRET.

Close on my heart was resting A sunny golden head, As the dim gray of the twilight Crept round with noiseless tread.

"Tell me a 'tory, mamma,"

The blue-eyed baby said, "About some itty birdie In za itty birdie bed.

"'Bout fen oo was itty An'ze mens was walkin' hay An' found free ittie birdies Wiz za muzzer don away."

"Some other time, my darling; Mamma's tired now."

A shade of disappointment Swept over the baby's brow.

The dear blue eyes grew misty; O, lips that lived to blame, That kissed and whispered "sometime"-- That "sometime" never came.

Again, the dim, gray twilight Creeps round with noiseless tread, But on my heart is resting No sunny golden head.

No sweet voice pleads with mamma "Tell me a 'tory" now, And only death can take away The shadow on my brow.

"IT IS LIFE TO DIE."

"It is life to die," the muse has sung, The prophet words have rung from pole to pole, The trust, the hope to which many have clung, An echo woke in many a weary soul.

"Ah! welcome thrice if but that death would come As sweeps the avalanche from Alpine hight, As falls the flashing storm-sent lightning-bolt, Resistless in its terror and its might.

"But oh! to die by slowest slow decay, To clothe a dying heart in life's warm breath, When every day repeats a long eternity, And every hour is but another death!"

O, G.o.d! why were we born to live a life, From very thought of which our souls must shrink, To sink down in the waves of human strife, And ever only wait, and wait, and think.

No wonder that so many hapless ones, Too sensitive the specter to defy, Arm, Hamlet-like, against a sea of woes, And test the truth, that "it is life to die."

O, SPEAK IT NOT.

O, speak not hastily the word Thine ear from idle tongues has heard.

If false the tale thou couldst recall, How hard, and cruel must it fall?

If true, why, helping it along Will never, never right the wrong.

O, speak it not, not speak the word That wounds, though but in jest 'tis heard; Keep back the thrust, the look askance, The petty doubt, the sneering glance; Keep back the taunts and jeers, Life has enough of breaking hearts, Of pointed barbs and venomed darts-- Enough of pain and tears.

A SHATTERED IDOL.

O blame me not for the cruel words In a moment of madness said; The shadow that fell upon my life Is cold as the shrouded dead.

Deem not I am hard and heartless; My tears are as warm as thine; 'Twas clay that I crowned and worshipped, And wept o'er its crumbled shrine.

To me, my pa.s.sionate, deathless soul, Was less than his finger-tips; He turned away fro the gold of my love For the dross on a wanton's lips.

My faith in his truth is broken-- Even truth itself is a lie.

I have cursed him!--but I love him, And I'll love him till I die.

POOR LITTLE JOE.

A ring on the door bell, Some one at the door, Mute asking admittance Where never before A stranger in midnight, In silence and stealth, Sought access to gain In a mansion of wealth.

Into the gaslight A package is borne; Quickly from round it The wrappings are torn.

What is it? a baby!

What seek you to-night, So rosy and smiling, Nor in fear, nor in fright?

Ah! little intruder, What is it you wear So close to your breast?

Sure but hand in despair Could have written the message Unconscious you bear, And "loved" and "G.o.d blessed" you While leaving you there.

Let's see the story 'Tis telling for you; How brief and pathetic; But can it be true?

A mother heart brokenly Praying in grief From hand of a stranger Her baby's relief.