When I was young and full of faith
And other fads that youngsters
cherish
A cry rose as of one that saith
With unction: “Help
me or I perish!”
’Twas heard in all the land, and
men
The sound were each to each
repeating.
It made my heart beat faster then
Than any heart can now be
beating.
For the world is old and the world is
gray—
Grown prudent and, I guess,
more witty.
She’s cut her wisdom teeth, they
say,
And doesn’t now go in
for Pity.
Besides, the melancholy cry
Was that of one, ’tis
now conceded,
Whose plight no one beneath the sky
Felt half so poignantly as
he did.
Moreover, he was black. And yet
That sentimental generation
With an austere compassion set
Its face and faith to the
occasion.
Then there were hate and strife to spare,
And various hard knocks a-plenty;
And I (’twas more than my true share,
I must confess) took five-and-twenty.
That all is over now—the reign
Of love and trade stills all
dissensions,
And the clear heavens arch again
Above a land of peace and
pensions.
The black chap—at the last
we gave
Him everything that he had
cried for,
Though many white chaps in the grave
’Twould puzzle to say
what they died for.
I hope he’s better off—I
trust
That his society and his master’s
Are worth the price we paid, and must
Continue paying, in disasters;
But sometimes doubts press thronging round
(’Tis mostly when my
hurts are aching)
If war for union was a sound
And profitable undertaking.
’Tis said they mean to take away
The Negro’s vote for
he’s unlettered.
’Tis true he sits in darkness day
And night, as formerly, when
fettered;
But pray observe—howe’er
he vote
To whatsoever party turning,
He’ll be with gentlemen of note
And wealth and consequence
and learning.
With Hales and Morgans on each side,
How could a fool through lack
of knowledge,
Vote wrong? If learning is no guide
Why ought one to have been
in college?
O Son of Day, O Son of Night!
What are your preferences
made of?
I know not which of you is right,
Nor which to be the more afraid
of.
The world is old and the world is bad,
And creaks and grinds upon
its axis;
And man’s an ape and the gods are
mad!—
There’s nothing sure,
not even our taxes.
No mortal man can Truth restore,
Or say where she is to be
sought for.
I know what uniform I wore—
O, that I knew which side
I fought for!
A YEAR’S CASUALTIES.
Slain as they lay by the secret, slow,
Pitiless hand of an unseen foe,
Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed
The river to join the loved and lost.
In the space of a year their spirits fled,
Silent and white, to the camp of the dead.
One after one, they fall asleep
And the pension agents awake to weep,
And orphaned statesmen are loud in their
wail
As the souls flit by on the evening gale.
O Father of Battles, pray give us release
From the horrors of peace, the horrors
of peace!
