Turning the Book Wheel
Years have passed since first we met,
Pliant and ever-faithful-slave!
Nobly thou standest by me yet,
Watchful as ever and as brave.
O, were the power of language thine.
To tell all thou hast seen and done,
Methinks the curious would incline.
Their ears to dwell they tales upon!
I love thee, bloodstaln’d, faithful friend!
As warrior loves his sword or shield;
For how on thee did I depend
When foes of Life were in the field!
Those blood spots on thy visage, tell
That thou, thro horrid scenes, hast past.
O, thou hast served me long and well;
And I shall love thee to the Last!
A thousand mem’ries cluster round thee
In all their freshness! thou dost speak
Of friends far distant-friends who found thee
Aye with thy master, prompt to wreak
Vengeance on foes who strove to kill
With blows well aim’d at heart or head—
Thieves that, with demon heart and will.
Would fain have on they vials fed.
O, They have blessed thee for thy aid,
When grateful eyes, thy presence, spoke;
Thou, anguish’d bosoms, glad hast made.
And miser’s tyrant sceptre broke.
Now, when ‘mong strangers, is our sphere.
Thou, to my heart, are but the more.
Endear’d—as many a woe-wring tear
Would plainly tell, if from me tore!
One for bike month from our friends to the North. The Canadian Wheelman like our American publications contains articles, letters, and advertisements. But Vol 4, No. 8 also has a poem entitled “The Return” which includes a possibly not unfamiliar scenario for the modern day cycling enthusiast…
That morn he’d started early
To make a two hours’ run,
But tempted by the skies so fair,
Full fifty miles he’d spun.
Then came to him the query:
Can I get home to-night?
If not, I have myself to blame
For this most dismal plight.
From Rhymes for Young Folks (1887)
THE BUBBLE.
See, the pretty Planet !
Floating sphere !
Faintest breeze will fan it
Far or near ;
World as light as feather ;
Moonshine rays,
Rainbow tints, together,
As it plays ;
Drooping, sinking, failing,
Nigh to earth,
Mounting, whirling, sailing,
Full of mirth ;
Life there, welling, flowing.
Waving round ;
Pictures coming, going.
Without sound.
Quick now ! be this airy
Globe repell’d !
Never can the fairy
Star be held.
Touch’d — it in a twinkle
Disappears !
Leaving but a sprinkle,
As of tears.
![More Poetry for National Poetry month! This manuscript contains poetry, some riddles and puzzles, and short prose passages selected “by Mary Jane Wynkoop at Miss Gorham’s School, Elizabeth Town, February 28th 1824.”
“Variety is pleasing” she so rightly points out on the elaborately illustrated title page.
The poems are not credited, but here’s one that’s a bit sad. Because poetry should be a little sad when it’s not about tobacco, don’t you think?
To ——-
Dost thou think because I smile, When wit and mirth surround me There is no torturing thought the while That with its secret power can wound me? Ah! I know then, I have schooled my heart, To stifle every wayward feeling, And dearly have I bought the art, Not that of conquering, but concealing. Yet, when I see the joyous smile In other’s eyes so brightly beaming, I feel a transient joy the while, ‘Tis real then, it is not seeming. But memory, with her thousand things, Tur[n]s every present joy to sorrow; And sad anticipation brings’ Thoughts which from hope no solace borrow.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1xccnWHee1rn3gulo1_500.jpg)
More Poetry for National Poetry month! This manuscript contains poetry, some riddles and puzzles, and short prose passages selected “by Mary Jane Wynkoop at Miss Gorham’s School, Elizabeth Town, February 28th 1824.”
“Variety is pleasing” she so rightly points out on the elaborately illustrated title page.
The poems are not credited, but here’s one that’s a bit sad. Because poetry should be a little sad when it’s not about tobacco, don’t you think?
To ——-
Dost thou think because I smile,
When wit and mirth surround me
There is no torturing thought the while
That with its secret power can wound me?
Ah! I know then, I have schooled my heart,
To stifle every wayward feeling,
And dearly have I bought the art,
Not that of conquering, but concealing.
Yet, when I see the joyous smile
In other’s eyes so brightly beaming,
I feel a transient joy the while,
‘Tis real then, it is not seeming.
But memory, with her thousand things,
Tur[n]s every present joy to sorrow;
And sad anticipation brings’
Thoughts which from hope no solace borrow.
Poem about tobacco in the style of Alexander Pope. From a curious volume found in our National Museum of American History Library entitled The Witching Weed by Albert Sims (1915). Remember, no smoking in the stacks!
IMITATION V (Alexander Pope) ". . . Solis ad ortus Vanescit fumus." --- Lucan BLEST leaf ! whose aromatick gales dispense To templars modesty, to parsons sense : So raptur'd priests, at fam'd Dodona's shrine Drank inspiration from the steam divine. Poison that cures, a vapour that affords Content, more solid than the smile of lords : Rest to the weary, to the hungry food, The last kind refuge of the wise and good. Inspir'd by thee, dull cits adjust the scale Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail. By thee protected, and thy sister, beer, Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. Nor less the critick owns thy genial aid, While supperless he plies the piddling trade. What tho' to love and soft delights a foe, By ladies hated, hated by the beau, Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown, Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, And let me taste thee unexcis'd by kings.
DISCLAIMER: the Smithsonian Libraries does not encourage or condone the practice of smoking tobacco in or outside of the book stacks; or of writing poetry of questionable quality in the style of famous poets.
