Classic Poem

( AFTER HOOD .)

John MAULER was a gondolier
On Erie's verdant shore;
His walk was humble, but his gait
Was something to adore.

The locksman's lovely daughter had
For him a passion strong,
And though she was quite short and small
He vowed he loved her long.

Love's course is often sweet and mild,
And like the limpid wave
Of calm canals, whose rippling tides
Their soft embankments lave.

But crosses come, as freshets do,
And cruel sires there be,
Unfeeling guardians whose wards
Are always under key.

Her father's haughty castle stood
Beside the fair Mohawk;
He did n't lock her in the keep,
But kept her in the lock.

" Think not to wed a driver low!
Thou art too rare a prize;
Canalers to canaille may stoop,
But not to wed-lock rise. "

So spake her parent scornfully;
The maiden heard in fear,
And when he laughed his horsey laugh
She dropped her muleteer.

" Oh, Sarah Jane! " her lover cried,
" My honest love you scorn,
And since you've given me the sack,
I'll take it in a horn. "

John Mauler's manly heart grew weak,
For gin and grief soon shook it;
And when his mule kicked in his side,
He sighed and kicked the bucket.

The lovely maiden pined away,
And said, with many a tear,
" Although he's gone before, I'll stay
And be his pioneer. "

The locksman lives a changed man,
With sorrow in his eyes;
For every night his hair turns white,
And every morn he dyes.

For in the hour when Nature sleeps
And bargemen blithely swear,
A grim procession wakens him
And elevates his hair.

A ghostly barge, a spectre mule,
A phantom driver grim,
Beside the haunted lock are seen
To pass an hour with him.

Their purpose is a paradox
To make the blood run cold;
For though they go without a word
They're waiting to be tolled.

And then the spectre barge departs
Along the sluggish pool,
Beside a fleshless driver and
Behind a bloodless mule,

Past Syracuse and Utica,
And Ilion's ancient walls,
And where the mighty Mohawk flows
From Rome to Little Falls,

Till boat and mule and driver fade
Before the sun's bright face;
The very harness vanishes,
Nor leaves a broken trace.

But Richfield convalescents say
That every morn they find
Some extra sulphur in the springs,
And brimstone in the wind.