"A few more items yet, and I have done. I would the warmest gratitude express, And obligations deep I owe to one-- Whose heart is with her friends in their distress, And when their joys come on, exceed her none, In spontaneities, to smile or bless-- To you, Lottie--who disappointments share, All that your tender prompting well can bear.
"And now, good friend, I feel I'm badly needing A little respite from the past few days, Whose strange events have set a canker feeding Within my breast, where wooing quiet stays; But now, at times, I feel it must be bleeding, My very brain is in a dizzy haze Of horrid things that in succession fly Before my eyes. Once more, dear friend, good-by."
If there be anything that is heartrending, It is when called upon to yield our cheer To those whose joys have found a sudden ending, Indeed the task's a hopeless one--that's clear-- To attempt to improve upon or save by mending. As well essay to move a planet from its sphere, As talk to any one whose real sorrow Has pass'd the line where he was wont to borrow.
I've tried it oft, and given o'er the task; And hopeful too as any woman that e'er tried, Or man either, e'en though he wore the mask, That Satan wore to set our mother Eve beside Herself enough to think, and curious ask, Why she was ever made, or ever tied Upon this curious revolving ball, And where her crazy actions brought "the fall."
That was the fearful thing in nature's God-- The giving to that simple child the power To tread where his own mighty footsteps trod! The gloomy clouds o'er all mankind since low'r, And lay their stubborn heads beneath the sod! His grandchild might have bloom'd supernal flow'r, Of all the grand and awful fabrication, Nor need redemption nor regeneration.
Perhaps such questions we've no right to put, Unto the Framer of the Universe; To our inquis'tiveneness his doors are shut, _On dit_--and recommended well of course, By the theologist in pious hut, With clearing small around--or what is worse, He lives beyond where busy thoughts do center, And so beyond the pale where gossips enter.
But then theology is not the theme To claim my present labor or my time. We'll then retire to Mary's broken dream; Although the task is hard, in changing rhyme, To waft her smoothly down life's whirling stream, And land her safe in any pleasant clime, When knowing that her dearest hopes have pal'd, And every sweet anticipation fail'd.