Old books from yonder shelves are whispering, "Peace! This is the realm of letters, not of strife." Old graves in yonder field are saying, Cease! Hic jacet ends the noisiest mortal's life." -Shut your old books! What says the telegraph? We want an Extra, not an epitaph. Old Classmates, (Time's unconscious almanacs, Counting the years we leave behind our backs, And wearing them in wrinkles on the brow Of friendship with his kind "How are you now?") Take us by the hand, and speak of times that were. Then comes a moment's 66 'Pray tell me where pause: Your boy is now! Wounded, as I am told." An' God wun't leave us yit to sink or swim, Ef we don't fail to du wut's right by him. This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be A better country than man ever see. 66 I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry Thet seems to say, Break forth an' prophesy!" O strange New World, thet yit wast never young, Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was wrung, Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed Was prowled roun' by the Injuns' cracklin' tread, An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' pains, Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains, Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain With each hard hand a vassal ocean's mane, Thou, skilled by Freedom an' by gret I put some thoughts thet bothered me in rhyme: I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on, But here they be—it's JONATHAN TO JOHN. IT don't seem hardly right, John, Thet's fit for you an' me!" Blood ain't so cool as ink, John; It's likely you'd ha' wrote, An' stopped a spell to think, John, Arter they'd cut your throat? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess He'd b'longed to ole J. B., Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, "Thet, ef Vattell on his toes 'Twould kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you and me!" Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win-ditto, tails? 66 "J. B." was on his shirts, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me!" When your rights was our wrong, John, You didn't stop for fuss, - Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, "It doesn't foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.' Put up by you an' me!" We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus'n' take it hard, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Why talk so dreffle big, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, one Thet's nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" We give the critters back, John, Coz Abra'm thought 'twas right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" We ain't so weak an' poor, John, "The surest plan to make a Man Ez much ez you or me!" Our folks believe in Law, John: Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, An' thet don't suit J. B., But now should my guests be merry, the house is in holiday guise, Looking out, through its burnished windows like a score of welcoming eyes. Come hither, my brothers who wander in saintliness and in sin! Come hither, ye pilgrims of Nature! my heart doth invite you in. My wine is not of the choicest, yet bears it an honest brand; And the bread that I bid you lighten I break with no sparing hand; But pause, ere you pass to taste it, one act must accomplished be: Salute the flag in its virtue, before ye sit down with me. The flag of our stately battles, not struggles of wrath and greed: Its stripes were a holy lesson, its spangles a deathless creed; 'Twas red with the blood of freemen, and white with the fear of the foe, And the stars that fight in their courses 'gainst tyrants its symbols know. Come hither, thou son of my mother! we were reared in. the selfsame arms; Thou hast many a pleasant gesture, thy mind hath its gifts and charms, But my heart is as stern to question as mine eyes are of sorrows full: Salute the flag in its virtue, or pass on where others rule. Thou lord of a thousand acres, with heaps of uncounted gold, The steeds of thy stall are haughty, thy lackeys cunning and bold: I envy no jot of thy splendor, I rail at thy follies none: Salute the flag in its virtue, or leave my poor house alone. Fair lady with silken trappings, high waving thy stainless plume, We welcome thee to our numbers, a flower of costliest bloom: Let a hundred maids live widowed to furnish thy bridal bed; But pause where the flag doth question, and bend thy triumphant head. |