Classic Poem

Men swell the current, — many of them wear
Upon their brows the cruel badge of care.
The magic Greenback, like some rolling ball,
Gathers the man-moss, hurls them into " Wall".
Each eager face in passing seems to say —
" Chasing a dollar, comrades, clear the way!
I am ambitious, and I fain would win:
Would gain the dollar even if I sin."
And oft, alas, in raging lust for gold,
Life's cup is broken, and a soul is sold!
Some push along with satisfaction's air,
While others wear the visage of despair.

Some, looking forward, in perspective see
When their one dollar shall ten thousand be.
Some glancing upward, building in the sky
Bright airy castles soon to fade and die:
While sad-faced men look backward and pass on
Cursing the day that ever they were born.
For empty pockets begets woes untold,
And friends and comfort vanish with our gold.
Then should we wonder that the trash is sought,
With which e'en friendship is oft sold and bought?
There, mark the difference in the prosperous man,
And one who gains existence as he can —
One with his head erect, the other bowed,
The poor are humble, but the rich are proud.

Hark! surely there is music in the air!
'Tis " Dixie" floating on this Northern breeze.
Thrilling each Southern heart with thoughts
Of a lost Nation's hope, and her despair.
This world is strange, 'tis an anomaly!
For glancing downward now I see
A one-armed soldier, in a coat of blue —
And, by-the-by, his legs are missing too,
Grinding with his one hand the " Dixie" song.
Perchance, who knows, that very tune was played,
When in the midst of some mad martial raid
The missile came along
Which left of noble manhood but the wreck.

Now, standing by his side, is one
I know, a warrior, brave for Southern rights:
All strife is ended, and all warring done.
And the blue-clad soldier's eyes seem dancing lights,
As in his hand the Southern warrior places
His mite; true, 'tis a small donation,
But it betrays the great appreciation
Of a brave soul, for spirit kindred born.

Now " Yankee Doodle" falls upon my ear,
Then " Erin's Wearing of the Green" I hear;
And as the human current moves along,
I read their Nation as each hears the song —
For faces speak, and eyes will tell the truth:
When Memory, with swift electric string,
Draws Past to Present, on sweet music's wing.
A tear in manhood's eye is no disgrace,
And pity lends a charm to every face.
Statesmen, the satellites of Fame,
Are mingling with the throng,
Some heart sore with a Nation's blame,
Some charmed by the Siren song
Of present popularity.
Ah me! how changes tide with time,
Public opinion is as vacillating
As seasons are, forever on the change.
Warm, temperate, cold, in changing only true,
Or like some serpent, with its roseate hue,
Of commendation, luring on its victim
E'en to death; who, wounded by the sting
Of misconception, like the poor snail,
Shrinks in his shell, and starving for fame,
Dies in obscurity. [...]

'Tis marvellous how mortals can invent
The ways and means to increase worldly stores.
Scorn not beginnings, and each small thing prize,
From e'en a cord, sometimes large fortunes rise.
Yon apple-woman, vender of small wares,
Stale lozenges, fruit, candy, and vile cakes,
Who sells to urchins pennies' worth of aches,
Has now the gold safe hoarded in the bank,
With which to buy high place in fashion's rank.
Merit is nothing, money rules the day
Right royally, with rare despotic sway.

Something familiar comes before me now,
A picture of the Southern cotton-plant.
Broadway today, with its white glittering shield,
Is not as pure as Southern cotton field;
With flakes of snow bursting from bolls of green,
Like some imprisoned genius scorning to be
Confined by laws, which bind society,
And breaking bonds is wafted on the breeze
Of public favor, or gathered by the slaves

Of Fashion, whose vile hands
Pollute its purity.
True, fragments now and then
Are gently taken to the hearts of men —
White flowers of fancy oftimes sink to rest
Deep in the wells of some fair maiden's breast:
Pure in themselves, they yet become more fair
By contact with the holy thoughts in there.

Cotton and slaves, 'twas thus we counted gold,
The slaves are free, the free in bondage sold;
And now some man with rare prolific brains,
Genius inventive, by the name of Gaines,
Has made a bitters of the cotton plant;
Polluting thus the hitherto white name
By clothing it in the vile badge of shame.

White, glaring white, is all the earth below,
And Broadway seems a " universe of snow".
Or like the Ocean's silver-crested waves,
Upon whose breasts thousands of barks are tossed;
Some brave the storm, — by cautious pilots mann'd,
Some strike on breakers, ere they reach the land,
And are forever lost. [...]

Well, times have changed, the galling chain
That made the black man bow
Subservient to a master's mighty will,
Is broken for Eternity;
And with that chain the cord that bound
Our Southern souls in idleness to earth,
Wealth earned by others, strown with lavish hand,
With but one power, the power to command,
Is loosed,
And on Ambition's wings our eager soul
Can reach the mount, Ambition's much-prized goal,
And grasping to our hearts the spectre Fame,
We faint to find the goddess but a name.

Dreaming again! Ah, how the memory clings
To the dead past; a touch but opes the door
Of the dim vista of departed years,
And phantoms of our hopes and fears,
In dreamy indistinct array,
Seem flitting up and down this snowy way.
A loaded wagon now, has ope'd the door —
" Wilcox and Gibbs'" machine — and nothing more.

Now, I am in the sunny land of flowers,
And smell the perfume from the jasmine bowers;
By opened window sit I half my days,
Sewing the while, but stopping oft to gaze
At two bright fairies, who with sable friends
Hide, like the pixies,
Underneath the petals of some bright flower,
Whose clear celestial hue
My darlings shame, with their bright eyes of blue.

They crown each other with the garlands fair,
The " grey-beard" mingles with their silken hair
Like cords of silver, with the jet and gold,
Soft tiny hands are resting on my brow,
I too am crowned:
" I would have made your wreath of white,"
The eldest says, " you are so good,
But, mother, sister said that you were true,
And so we added all these violets blue."
My good machine partaking of my pride
Sang one sweet song, and made the stitches fine,
Making the children hers as well as mine. [...]

The seasons change, opinions change,
And even senses change with time;
In age we see not with the eyes
We looked from in our youth's full prime.
Couleur de rose is turned to sober grey,
Which grows more sombre every hour and day;
And Fashion too, like all things here below,
Is ever changing, as the sunset cloud;
First a vast mountain, then a fleecy shroud,
A mass of darkness, now of crimson hue,
Soft, silver-tinted, then a violet blue,
Then blending all the shades in the rainbow.
Now Fashion's minions, in the last new style,
Pass and repass, disdaining the slight smile
That curls the lip of ever scornful man,
Whose brains inventive all new styles design,
From fancy gaiters to arranging hair.
I've studied Nature, and I've studied Art,
Can at a glance detect, in smallest part
Of a grand toilet, whose great Artist's skill,
Moulded the madam to her august will,
If from the fashion-plates of Harper's good
" Bazar", " Die Modenwelt" or " Magazine
Of Madam Demorest", the robes were made.
If the rival artists of the present day,
Which hold in Fashion's world the sway
Of reigning queens,
Their wondrous genius used to create
The airy, fairy figures slight,
Which make this city full of light.

I know, if from our " Merchant Prince" was bought
The fabric rare, made in a foreign land,
Upon whose very surface seems inwrought
A sightless eye, a wasted, helpless hand
Of some poor wretch, who e'en his senses gave
To deck the garment over which we rave.
Those tasty habits, costly, plain, and neat,
Disclosing 'neath their folds two tiny feet,
Snugly encased in leather-shoes thick soled,
Are snares which catch the unwary heart of man;
Those costly jewels, too, from " Browne and Spaulding's" bought —
Are many a lesson to the wedded taught,
That Fanchon bonnet, ribbon and a flower,
Speak to man's pocket with all potent power.
But Fashion, although charming for a while,
Has not the lasting power of a smile. [...]

Men robed in later styles the dark halls fill,
Hold eager consultation; then a thrill
Of indignation seems to move the mass,
And to the office of the Surrogate they throng,
In a chill current, like the whirlwind strong —
And eagerly they seek, in each small nook to find
Some traces of the WILL they left behind.
Some smiling faces look upon me now,
But many glance, with a dark lowering brow,
Upon the fragments of a broken will.

In deep sepulchral tones, amid the ghostly din,
A stern voice utters, " Bring the culprit in."
And the last Surrogate
Is ushered in, and takes his chair of state;
Grim Death is standing by his head,
And o'er him spirits of the happy dead
Are keeping watch.
Orphans and widows, with all patience wait
To hear the verdict of the Surrogate.
He tears the will , declares 'tis Law 's command,
And in a moment all the ghostly band
Have vanished, save the solemn clerk
Who writes until earth's pall of night
Is changed for robes of glorious light.