The Mayor's Ring

I hold a token in my hand,
    A very tiny thing;
And yet within its golden band
    A thousand memories cling.

Aye! thrice ten thousand memories cling
    Of signal victories won,
Enshrined within this little ring,
    Reward of duty done.

I ever shall this token prize,
    And wear it with true grace -
The tie that binds the kindred ties
    Of friendship race to race.

And when I soar full through the skies,
    Yet ever will I cling
Within the gates of Paradise
    This sacred little ring!

Edward Smyth Jones

Edward Smyth Jones was an African American poet born in Natchez, Mississippi, best known for his poem "A Song of Thanks". He faced significant challenges throughout his life, including racial prejudice and economic hardship. His work often reflects his struggles and aspirations, particularly focusing on themes of resilience, hope, and gratitude. Despite his relatively obscure status in literary circles, Jones's contributions are recognized for their emotional depth and historical significance. He passed away in 1968.

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English

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The Token.

I.

Only a ringlet of flaxen hair,
    Tied with a ribbon blue,
Laid by the hand of a mother there--
    Cherished with love so true!


II.

Only a soft and silken curl,
    Bound with a knotted bow;
Worn on the head of a little girl
    Lost in the long-ago.


III.

Only a hallowed treasure kept
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Over which her eyes have wept
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IV.

Only a link in the golden chain,
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V.

Only a relic undefiled,
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Virtues Of A Diamond Ring.

        Of the strange virtues of a ring,
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        Brave warrior of ancient France,
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The Ring Of Polycrates. [32] A Ballad.

Upon his battlements he stood,
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While to these words the king gave vent,
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'Your ringlets, your ringlets,
That look so golden-gay,
If you will give me one, but one,
To kiss it night and day,
The never chilling touch of Time
Will turn it silver-gray;
And then shall I know it is all true gold
To flame and sparkle and stream as of old.
Till all the comets in heaven are cold,
And all her stars decay.'
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'My ringlet, my ringlet,
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Now never chilling touch of Time
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To The Lord Mayor

    (November 9th)

    My dear Lord Mayor, -
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    From min' office window I catch glimpses
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    I don't know who pays for them
    (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say),
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    I am also given to understand that there has been a big rush
    For free windows to view your procession,
    Which, all being well (the Procession, that is to say)
    Will take place this day, Saturday;
    For my own part I am going into the country,
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Rings And Seals.

"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid,
"The charm is broken!--once betrayed,
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"With wedded truth my hand hath worn;
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"A fountain sealed^[1] for only thee:
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    I took the ring--the seal I took,
While, oh, her every tear and look
Were such as angels look and shed,
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