PROLOGUE.
A PROLOGUE.
?
Well, of course the ladies know,-- I have my doubts.

No matter,--here we go! What is a Prologue?
Let our Tutor teach: Pro means beforehand; logos stands for speech.
'T is like the harper's prelude on the strings, The prima donna's courtesy ere she sings; Prologues in metre are to other pros As worsted stockings are to engine-hose.
"The world's a stage,"-- as Shakespeare said, one day; The stage a world--was what he meant to say.
The outside world's a blunder, that is clear; The real world that Nature meant is here.
Here every foundling finds its lost mamma; Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa; Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid, The cheats are taken in the traps they laid; One after one the troubles all are past Till the fifth act comes right side up at last, When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all, Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall.
Here suffering virtue ever finds relief, And black-browed ruffians always come to grief.
When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" and drops upon her knees On the green--baize,--beneath the (canvas) trees,-- See to her side avenging Valor fly:-- "Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!" When the poor hero flounders in despair, Some dear lost uncle turns up millionaire, Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy, Sobs on his neck, "My boy! MY BOY!! _MY BOY_!!!" Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night, Of love that conquers in disaster's spite.
Ladies, attend! While woful cares and doubt Wrong the soft passion in the world without, Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere, One thing is certain: Love will triumph here! Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,-- The world's great masters, when you 're out of school,-- Learn the brief moral of our evening's play Man has his will,--but woman has her way! While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire, Woman's swift instinct threads the electric wire,-- The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.
All earthly powers confess your sovereign art But that one rebel,--woman's wilful heart.
All foes you master, but a woman's wit Lets daylight through you ere you know you 're hit.
So, just to picture what her art can do, Hear an old story, made as good as new.
Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, Alike was famous for his arm and blade.
One day a prisoner Justice had to kill Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.
Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed, Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.
His falchion lighted with a sudden gleam, As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.
"Why strikest not?
Perform thy murderous act," The prisoner said.

(His voice was slightly cracked.) "Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied; "Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." He held his snuff-box,--"Now then, if you please!" The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, Off his head tumbled,--bowled along the floor,-- Bounced down the steps;--the prisoner said no more! Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye; If death lurk in it, oh how sweet to die! Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head; We die with love, and never dream we're dead! LATTER-DAY WARNINGS WHEN legislators keep the law, When banks dispense with bolts and looks, When berries--whortle, rasp, and straw-- Grow bigger downwards through the box,-- When he that selleth house or land Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,-- When haberdashers choose the stand Whose window hath the broadest light,-- When preachers tell us all they think, And party leaders all they mean,-- When what we pay for, that we drink, From real grape and coffee-bean,-- When lawyers take what they would give, And doctors give what they would take,-- When city fathers eat to live, Save when they fast for conscience' sake,-- When one that hath a horse on sale Shall bring his merit to the proof, Without a lie for every nail That holds the iron on the hoof,-- When in the usual place for rips Our gloves are stitched with special care, And guarded well the whalebone tips Where first umbrellas need repair,-- When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot The power of suction to resist, And claret-bottles harbor not Such dimples as would hold your fist,-- When publishers no longer steal, And pay for what they stole before,-- When the first locomotive's wheel Rolls through the Hoosac Tunnel's bore;-- Till then let Cumming blaze away, And Miller's saints blow up the globe; But when you see that blessed day, Then order your ascension robe.
ALBUM VERSES WHEN Eve had led her lord away, And Cain had killed his brother, The stars and flowers, the poets say, Agreed with one another.
To cheat the cunning tempter's art, And teach the race its duty, By keeping on its wicked heart Their eyes of light and beauty.
A million sleepless lids, they say, Will be at least a warning; And so the flowers would watch by day, The stars from eve to morning.
On hill and prairie, field and lawn, Their dewy eyes upturning, The flowers still watch from reddening dawn Till western skies are burning.
Alas! each hour of daylight tells A tale of shame so crushing, That some turn white as sea-bleached shells, And some are always blushing.
But when the patient stars look down On all their light discovers, The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown, The lips of lying lovers, They try to shut their saddening eyes, And in the vain endeavor We see them twinkling in the skies, And so they wink forever.
A GOOD TIME GOING! BRAVE singer of the coming time, Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme, The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant, Good by! Good by!--Our hearts and hands, Our lips in honest Saxon phrases, Cry, God be with him, till he stands His feet among the English daisies! 'T is here we part;--for other eyes The busy deck, the fluttering streamer, The dripping arms that plunge and rise, The waves in foam, the ship in tremor, The kerchiefs waving from the pier, The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him, The deep blue desert, lone and drear, With heaven above and home before him! His home!--the Western giant smiles, And twirls the spotty globe to find it; This little speck the British Isles?
'T is but a freckle,--never mind it! He laughs, and all his prairies roll, Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles, And ridges stretched from pole to pole Heave till they crack their iron knuckles! But Memory blushes at the sneer, And Honor turns with frown defiant, And Freedom, leaning on her spear, Laughs louder than the laughing giant "An islet is a world," she said, "When glory with its dust has blended, And Britain keeps her noble dead Till earth and seas and skies are rended!" Beneath each swinging forest-bough Some arm as stout in death reposes,-- From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow Her valor's life-blood runs in roses; Nay, let our brothers of the West Write smiling in their florid pages, One half her soil has walked the rest In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages! Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp, From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather, The British oak with rooted grasp Her slender handful holds together;-- With cliffs of white and bowers of green, And Ocean narrowing to caress her, And hills and threaded streams between,-- Our little mother isle, God bless her! In earth's broad temple where we stand, Fanned by the eastern gales that brought us, We hold the missal in our hand, Bright with the lines our Mother taught us.
Where'er its blazoned page betrays The glistening links of gilded fetters, Behold, the half-turned leaf displays Her rubric stained in crimson letters! Enough! To speed a parting friend 'T is vain alike to speak and listen;-- Yet stay,--these feeble accents blend With rays of light from eyes that glisten.
Good by! once more,--and kindly tell In words of peace the young world's story,-- And say, besides, we love too well Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory.
THE LAST BLOSSOM THOUGH young no more, we still would dream Of beauty's dear deluding wiles; The leagues of life to graybeards seem Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles.
Who knows a woman's wild caprice?
'It played with Goethe's silvered hair, And many a Holy Father's "niece" Has softly smoothed the papal chair.
When sixty bids us sigh in vain To melt the heart of sweet sixteen, We think upon those ladies twain Who loved so well the tough old Dean.
We see the Patriarch's wintry face, The maid of Egypt's dusky glow, And dream that Youth and Age embrace, As April violets fill with snow.
Tranced in her lord's Olympian smile His lotus-loving Memphian lies,-- The musky daughter of the Nile, With plaited hair and almond eyes.
Might we but share one wild caress Ere life's autumnal blossoms fall, And Earth's brown, clinging lips impress The long cold kiss that waits us all! My bosom heaves, remembering yet The morning of that blissful day, When Rose, the flower of spring, I met, And gave my raptured soul away.
Flung from her eyes of purest blue, A lasso, with its leaping chain, Light as a loop of larkspurs, flew O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain.
Thou com'st to cheer my waning age, Sweet vision, waited for so long! Dove that would seek the poet's cage Lured by the magic breath of song! She blushes! Ah, reluctant maid, Love's drapeau rouge the truth has told! O' er girlhood's yielding barricade Floats the great Leveller's crimson fold! Come to my arms!--love heeds not years; No frost the bud of passion knows.
Ha! what is this my frenzy hears?
A voice behind me uttered,--Rose! Sweet was her smile,--but not for me; Alas! when woman looks too kind, Just turn your foolish head and see,-- Some youth is walking close behind! CONTENTMENT "Man wants but little here below" LITTLE I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A _very plain_ brown stone will do,) That I may call my own;-- And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.
Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten;-- If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three.

Amen I always thought cold victual nice;-- My _choice_ would be vanilla-ice.
I care not much for gold or land;-- Give me a mortgage here and there,-- Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share,-- I only ask that Fortune send A _little_ more than I shall spend.
Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I would, _perhaps_, be Plenipo,-- But only near St.James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.
Jewels are baubles; 't is a sin To care for such unfruitful things;-- One good-sized diamond in a pin,-- Some, not so large, in rings,-- A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;--I laugh at show.
My dame should dress in cheap attire; (Good, heavy silks are never dear;)-- I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere,-- Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.
I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait--two, forty-five-- Suits me; I do not care;-- Perhaps, for just a _single spurt_, Some seconds less would do no hurt.
Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four,-- I love so much their style and tone, One Turner, and no more, (A landscape,--foreground golden dirt,-- The sunshine painted with a squirt.) Of books but few,--some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor;-- Some _little_ luxury _there_ Of red morocco's gilded gleam And vellum rich as country cream.
Busts, cameos, gems,--such things as these, Which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride;-- _One_ Stradivarius, I confess, _Two_ Meerschaums, I would fain possess.
Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;-- Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But _all_ must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,-- I ask but _one_ recumbent chair.
Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much,-- Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content! AESTIVATION AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR IN candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, langueseent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the Give, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous riper.
How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine! To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum,-- No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue! Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,-- Depart,--be off,--excede,--evade,--erump! THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY" A LOGICAL STORY HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, I 'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,-- Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,-- Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,-- In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,-- Above or below, or within or without,-- And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, That a chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou ") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- Last of its timber,--they could n't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through." "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew!" Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large; Take it .-- You 're welcome .-- No extra charge.) FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day,-- There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out! Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson .-- Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,-- And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,-- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,-- All at once, and nothing first,-- Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic.

That's all I say.
PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR A MATHEMATICAL STORY FACTS respecting an old arm-chair.
At Cambridge.