Classic Poem

Poets and peddlers! From the early day
Till now the night of “letters” closes blind,
Peddlers and poets on the king's highway
Have met with salutations quaint though kind.

Who walks with Wordsworth, or with Shakespeare's wings,
Winnows the gold from this world's dusty cares,
May glean a grace from life's most common things,
And entertain an angel unawares.

In thoughts like these my inner man rejoiced,
As nightfall dropped a peddler at the gate,
A huge “bed-tick” upon his shoulder hoist,
A thousand pounds—in size, if not in weight.

The house-dog silenced, from the gate I heard
The olden plaint of all the world's highways:
“Footsore and hungry!” though, I wis, no word
Of retrospective hint at “better days”!

“A plague on peddlers!” is the form of wish
With which one's peddler welcome should begin;
Which, as a poet, I condensed to “Pish!”
And bade the biped dromedary in.

And in he came; at every step a bow
That offered me the mattress on his back,
As one by duty doubly bent—to show
His weight of obligation and of pack.

Much talk, but none that I might understand;
Of plaintive demonstration, also, much!
I only gathered that his Faderland
Was farther off—Jerusalem or Dutch!

Some arrant knight of commerce, who hath strayed
To these poor parts, by cheating fancy led,
To drive a brief but profitable trade
In lies and linen tapes, thieving and thread;

In drill-eyed sharps, no sharper than himself,
Tho' dull his eye and all adust his skin;
To plunder pity of her slender pelf,
And thrive in chief when chiefly “taken in.”

His supper done, I him to bed allowed;
But soon thereafter, passing unawares,
I saw (and beg your pardon if I bowed
And said “Amen”) the peddler at his prayers!

I do not deem all peddlers are devout;
I do not argue that they all are Dutch;
I only urge the pressure of the doubt
To hold in reasonable honor such.