Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/464

That he could justify his ways,
 When he had ta'en to drinking.

He always did his work by "rule,"
 But drank rum without measure,
The only variance he could see
 Between his work and leisure.

"Coins" had he always "in the bank,"
 But seldom in his pocket;
So when he journeyed for his health.
 He always had to walk it.

He ever had a stick in hand
 So far as we are knowing,
As well when he was at a '"stand,"
 As when a journey going.

He wicked grew extremely fast,
 Yet with religious bias,
Whene'er he "knocked a handful down,"
 He straitway became pious.

He "set in boxes" when at work.
 But when, to see Othello,
He went to play, down in the pit
 Did sit this honest fellow.

He was a Christian in belief,
 Excelled perhaps by no man.
His printed faith was Protestant,
 His printed works were " Roman."

In polities his words and acts
 Composed a curious tissue;
He preached hard money, yet he toiled
 To make the "paper issue."

His nose was "Roman," and his teeth
 Were "pearl," such was their whiteness;
His eyes, ah! they were "nonpareil,"
 Unrivaled in their brightness.

One day he "wet his form," alas !
 Too much, and it was "shattered;"
He fell down stairs, and sad to say
 His "bold-face" it was "battered."

His "form" was laid upon the "bed," '
 Nor "monk" nor "friar" with blesshig,
Was where the printer dying lay
 His latest "white-sheets" "pressing."

He "marked his errors," and he prayed
 For grace by Heaven directed,
Repentance came, and we believe.
 His "matter was corrected."

LITTLE WILLIE.

Thou art cradled in a slumber which no lullaby can know;
They have laid thee, darling Willie, down to sleep beneath the snow.
Sunny eyes forever darkened, prattling tongue forever still.
Vacant place in home's sad circle which the world can never fill.
Of the love which from the present lifts a weary weight of woe—
Of the hope which makes the future with divinest radiance glow—
Of purest joy—of life itself—'twere sad, indeed, to say
How much of all, lost Willie! has passed with thee away.
Ah! did we say, lost Willie!—not lost, but gone before;
The winged throng of cherubim—the ransomed, who adore—
The deathless ones—the sanctified, beyond the river cold,
Have welcomed with a love divine, the lambkin from our fold.
We miss thee, but we mourn thee not: beatitude is thine!
Fruition of the Christian Hope, the Christian Faith divine;
For hath not the Redeemer said, that 'tis of such as thee
The Kingdom of the Blessed through eternity shall be!