City Ballads Part 3

If I'd a million millions-- Just think! a million millions!-- What wouldn't I do--what couldn't I do-- If I'd a million millions?

From every forest's finest tree My many-gabled house should be; With silver threads from golden looms Should be attired my palace-rooms; My blossomed table have the best Of all the East and all the West; My bed should be a daintier thing Than ever sheltered queen or king; What wouldn't I do, What couldn't I do, If I'd a million millions?

If I'd a million millions-- A good, square million millions-- With gratefulness my friends should bless Me and my million millions!

None that had e'er befriended me But he a millionaire should be; Who kindly words of me had told, Should find their silver turned to gold; And he who did but just advance The sunbeam of a friendly glance In my affliction's cloudy day Should have rich, unexpected pay.

What wouldn't I do, What couldn't I do, If I'd a million millions?

If I'd a million millions-- Just think! a million millions!-- How many coals on hostile souls I'd heap with all my millions!

No enemy that earned my hate Should for a fiery guerdon wait; With roses sweet I'd twine him o'er Until the thorns should p.r.i.c.k him sore (How much of credit may be claimed For _sweetly_ making foes ashamed I do not know; it may depend On how much true love we extend); But love outpoured I could afford, If I'd a million millions!

An honest million millions-- Just think! a million millions!

The poor should bless the strange success That gave me all those millions!

I'd slaughter every hungry wight Within the circle of my sight, And resurrect him with such food As should go far to make him good; No poor-house but must bow its head And gaze at cottage walls instead; And hungry paupers soon should see A year of genuine jubilee.

Nought should alloy Their perfect joy, That could be saved by millions!

Just think! a million millions!-- The care of all those millions!

And after all, what would befall A life with all those millions?

Would not the lucre clog my brain, And make me hard and cold and vain?

Might not my treasure win my heart, And make me loath with it to part?

How could I tell, by mortal sign, Betwixt my money's friends and mine?

And then, the greed, and strife, and curse, The world brings round a princely purse: Perhaps my soul, Upon the whole, Is best, without the millions!

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Now comes the Christmas-tide: Love wakes on every side; Mirth smiles from every eye; Wreaths greet the pa.s.ser-by.

Who, full of haughty pride, Loves not the Christmas-tide?

He who, with av'rice low, Cares not to joy bestow.

G.o.d save the wretch denied Love for the Christmas-tide!

G.o.d tell his hardened heart Pure joy must joy impart!

Who, close to grief allied, Grieves 'mid the Christmas-tide?

She who, at Sorrow's call, Now mourns the loss of all.

G.o.d save the dear bereft-- Teach her the mercies left!

Show her that clouds may yet Lift, ere her sun be set!

Who lonely must abide All through the Christmas-tide?

He who has never known Love-pa.s.sion of his own.

So follows he his fate, Friendly but desolate; So--sad--his heart must hide All through the Christmas-tide!

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

DECEMBER 25, 18--.

Wind in the north-east; snow in wagon-loads; Good sleighing everywhere on all the roads.

Family healthy, sensible, and pleasant, And each one got the proper Christmas-present.

(At least it seems so, for they all act suited, And Santa Claus's taste hasn't been disputed.) Our family room is filled with tasty mixings Of evergreens and other woman-fixings; The open grate makes things look rich and mellow, With good hard coals the fire has painted yellow;[3]

Pictures peep from the walls, with _thought_ all through them, That set me studying every time I view them; There's certain books upon the centre-table That say what I'd have said if I'd been able; And, measuring up this room with honest style, 'Tisn't a bad place to be in for a while.

And so I sit here, thinking, musing, dreaming, About the world and all its curious scheming, And, full of certainty-begotten doubt, Wondering what this life is all about (From all that I can learn I'm not to blame, For wiser men have often done the same).

We went a mile or two, last night, to see The decorations on a Christmas-tree; I spied, hung on that sapling's gilded arms, Things that would buy a couple good sized farms; And just upon our way home, I should guess We met some fifty people, more or less, Who needed, to make pa.s.sable their days, A decent share of what those farms would raise.

But here's the question: should those ill-to-do Deprive rich people of their comforts too?

Because there are some people lack for bread, Must others' minds and fancies go unfed?

It's quite a puzzle, which I don't know whether My clumsy mind knows how to put together;

But one thing's sure: wants satisfied wants breed-- The more folks get, the more they seem to need.

Then, one man lives on what would starve another, And what is joy for you might kill your brother.

[3] Although _to me_ it doesn't contain the charm Of our old, wide log fire-place on the farm.

JANUARY 5, 18--.

Went to a skating-rink a little while, To see them slide in the new-fangled style; And, strange enough, this eve a letter came From a friend--Abdiel Stebbins is his name-- A cousin of my aunt, Sophia Dean; A wise old man, but clumsy like, and green.

He's on a visit in a neighboring city, And he has been a-skating--more's the pity!

He tells it in a manner quite sincere; I think perhaps I'll paste it right in here:

[FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS.]

ROCHESTER, _January 4._

DEAR COUSIN JOHN:

We got here safe--my worthy wife an' me-- An' put up at James Sunnyhopes'--a pleasant place to be; An' Isabel, his oldest girl, is home from school just now, An' pets me with her manners all her young man will allow; An' his good wife has monstrous sweet an' culinary ways: It is a summery place to pa.s.s a few cold winter days.

Besides, I've various cast-iron friends in different parts o' town, That's always glad to have me call whenever I come down; But t'other day, when 'mongst the same I undertook to roam, I could not find a single one that seemed to be to home!

An' when I asked their whereabouts, the answer was, "I think, If you're a-goin' down that way, you'll find 'em at the Rink."

I asked what night the Lyceum folks would hold their next debate-- (I've sometimes gone an' helped 'em wield the cares of Church an' State), An' if protracted meetin's now was holdin' anywhere (I like to get my soul fed up with fresh celestial fare); Or when the next church social was; they'd give a knowin' wink, An' say, "I b'lieve there's nothin' now transpirin' but the Rink."

"What is this 'Rink?'" I innocent inquired, that night at tea.

"Oh, you must go," said Isabel, "this very night with me!

And Mrs. Stebbins she must go, an' skate there with us, too!"

My wife replied, "My dear, just please inform me when I do.

But you two go." An' so we went, an' saw a circus there, With which few sights I've ever struck will anyways compare.