A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker Part 6

Her dwelling is unknown to fame-- Perchance she's fair--perchance her name Is _Car_, or _Kitty_; She may be _Jane_--she might be plain-- For need the object of one's strain Be always pretty?

THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK.

We knew an old Scribe, it was "once on a time,"-- An era to set sober datists despairing;-- Then let them despair! Darby sat in a chair Near the Cross that gave name to the village of Charing.

Though silent and lean, Darby was not malign,-- What hair he had left was more silver than sable;-- He had also contracted a curve in his spine From bending too constantly over a table.

His pay and expenditure, quite in accord, Were both on the strictest economy founded; His masters were known as the Sealing-wax Board, Who ruled where red tape and snug places abounded.

In his heart he looked down on this dignified knot,-- For why, the forefather of one of these senators, A rascal concerned in the Gunpowder Plot, Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors.

Poor fool! Life is all a vagary of Luck,-- Still, for thirty long years of genteel dest.i.tution He'd been writing State Papers, which means he had stuck Some heads and some tails to much circ.u.mlocution.

This sounds rather weary and dreary; but, no!

Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent, His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow Each night when returning to Rosemary Crescent.

There Joan meets him smiling, the young ones are there, His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee things; Of his advent the dog and the cat are aware, And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying the tea-things.

East wind! sob eerily! sing, kettle! cheerily!

Baby's abed,--but its father will rock it; Little ones boast your permission to toast The cake that good fellow brought home in his pocket.

This greeting the silent old Clerk understands,-- His friends he can love, had he foes, he could mock them; So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,-- Some tongues have more need of such scenes to unlock them.

And Darby, at least, is resigned to his lot, And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning, Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot, And _he_ won't recall it till ten the next morning.

A kindly good man, quite a stranger to fame, His heart still is green, though his head shows a h.o.a.r lock; Perhaps his particular star is to blame,-- It may be, he never took time by the forelock.

A day must arrive when, in pitiful case, He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow; Is he yet to be found in his usual place?

Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow?

If still at his duty he soon will arrive,-- He pa.s.ses this turning because it is shorter,-- If not within sight as the clock's striking five, We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter.

A WISH.

To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew, A pair of child-lovers I've seen, More than once were they there, and the years of the two, When added, might number thirteen.

They sat on the grave that has never a stone The name of the dead to determine, It was Life paying Death a brief visit--alone A notable text for a sermon.

They tenderly prattled; what was it they said?

The turf on that hillock was new; Dear Little Ones, did ye know aught of the Dead, Or could he be heedful of you?

I wish to believe, and believe it I must, Her father beneath them was laid: I wish to believe,--I will take it on trust, That father knew all that they said.

My own, you are five, very nearly the age Of that poor little fatherless child: And some day a true-love your heart will engage, When on earth I my last may have smiled.

Then visit my grave, like a good little la.s.s, Where'er it may happen to be, And if any daisies should peer through the gra.s.s, Be sure they are kisses from me.

And place not a stone to distinguish my name, For strangers to see and discuss: But come with your lover, as these lovers came, And talk to him sweetly of _us_.

And while you are smiling, your father will smile Such a dear little daughter to have, But mind,--O yes, mind you are happy the while-- _I wish you to visit my Grave_.

THE JESTER'S PLEA.

These verses were published in 1862, in a volume of Poems by several hands, ent.i.tled "An Offering to Lancas.h.i.+re."

The World! Was jester ever in A viler than the present?

Yet if it ugly be--as sin, It almost is--as pleasant!

It is a merry world (_pro tem._) And some are gay, and therefore It pleases them--but some condemn The fun they do not care for.

It is an ugly world. Offend Good people--how they wrangle!

The manners that they never mend!

The characters they mangle!

They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, And go to church on Sunday-- And many are afraid of G.o.d-- And more of _Mrs. Grundy_.

The time for Pen and Sword was when "My ladye fayre," for pity Could tend her wounded knight, and then Grow tender at his ditty!

Some ladies now make pretty songs,-- And some make pretty nurses:-- Some men are good for righting wrongs,-- And some for writing verses.

I wish We better understood The tax that poets levy!-- I know the Muse is very _good_-- I think she's rather heavy: She now compounds for winning ways By morals of the sternest-- Methinks the lays of now-a-days Are painfully in earnest.

When Wisdom halts, I humbly try To make the most of Folly: If Pallas be unwilling, I Prefer to flirt with Polly,-- To quit the G.o.ddess for the maid Seems low in lofty musers-- But Pallas is a haughty jade-- And beggars can't be choosers.

I do not wish to see the slaves Of party, stirring pa.s.sion, Or psalms quite superseding staves, Or piety "the fas.h.i.+on."

I bless the Hearts where pity glows, Who, here together banded, Are holding out a hand to those That wait so empty-handed!

A righteous Work!--My Masters, may A Jester by confession, Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay, The close of your procession?

The motley here seems out of place With graver robes to mingle, But if one tear bedews his face, Forgive the bells their jingle.

THE OLD CRADLE.

And this was your Cradle? why, surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Your baby-days flowed in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplexed with that newly-found fardel called Life.