Classic Poem

He was but a poor mechanic, and from Germany he came,
But the paragraphs in papers seem in doubt about his name;
“Frahm” or “Frank” I think they spell it, I don't know exactly how—
There's a doubt about his surname, but it doesn't matter now.

He was looking for employment, but it wasn't to be got,
And the bill for board and lodging seemed to trouble him a lot,
And in such a case, we fancy, it was neither safe nor right
To go strolling down the river with his misery at night.

By himself? ah, well—we know not—there are things we do not know,
For perhaps he saw his mother as in days of long ago;
And perhaps he saw that father who, beneath a porch of vine,
Smoked a long pipe in the gloaming, by a cottage 'cross the Rhine.

What remains? In human nature there are many chords to strike,
Let the reader paint the picture: you can fancy if you like
That the Murray, and the starlight, put the lonely man in mind
Of the river of his boyhood—and the girl he left behind.

He was unemployed and friendless and he hadn't any gold,
And the “aching void” was greater than his manly breast could hold;
So he drifted by the Murray when the day was growing dim,
And the river on its journey took to drifting over him.

Ah! we say the deed was sinful, but the Master will forgive,
For he knows it's getting harder for a working man to live;
Frank was done with care, and nothing kept his body from its bed—
Save, of course, the formal inquest on the cold sarcastic dead.

Let us trust, in spite of cynics, that he knelt upon the sward
Just to send a last petition “on approval” to the Lord.
And, if our religion's questioned, 'tis enough that Frank replied
With the bitter, cold, sarcastic silence of the suicide.

Workmen struggle, and are beaten, and they give it best and go,
And like Frank they cross the Border where the mighty waters flow.
But I rather think the Master will inquire the reason why
In the universal inquest—'cross the Border, by-and-by.