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
    From the grave's decay and mold,
Over which her eyes have wept
    With anguish all untold!


IV.

Only a link in the golden chain,
    By Death's cold hand unbroken,
Which leads to where she'll meet again
    The wearer of this token.


V.

Only a relic undefiled,
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Virtues Of A Diamond Ring.

        Of the strange virtues of a ring,
        In simple strains we now will sing,
        Brave warrior of ancient France,
        Where danger was he did advance.

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The Ring Of Polycrates. [32] A Ballad.

Upon his battlements he stood,
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To Egypt's monarch thus he spoke,
"That I am truly blest, then, say!"

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While to these words the king gave vent,
A herald from Miletus sent,
Appeared before the tyrant there:
"Lord, let thy incense rise to-day,
And with the laurel branches gay
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The Ringlet

'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.'
'Then take it, love, and put it by;
This cannot change, nor yet can I.'

'My ringlet, my ringlet,
That art so golden-gay,
Now never chilling touch of Time
Can turn thee silver-gray;
And a lad may wink, and a girl may hint,
And a fool may say his say;
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And I swear henceforth by this and this,
That a doubt will only come for a kiss,
And a fear to be kiss'd away.'
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Alfred Lord Tennyson

To The Lord Mayor

    (November 9th)

    My dear Lord Mayor, -
    In Fleet Street all is gay
    From min' office window I catch glimpses
    Of fluttering bunting and swinging festoons.
    I don't know who pays for them
    (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say),
    But I am informed by the police that they
    (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say)
    Have been hung up in honour of YOU.
    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,
    And I dare say that on the whole
    You wish you were going with me;
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Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Rings And Seals.

"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid,
"The charm is broken!--once betrayed,
"Never can this wronged heart rely
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"Take back the gifts, so fondly given,
"With promised faith and vows to heaven;
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"With wedded truth my hand hath worn;
"That seal which oft, in moments blest,
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"And sworn its sacred spring should be
"A fountain sealed^[1] for only thee:
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"All sullied, lost and hateful now!"

    I took the ring--the seal I took,
While, oh, her every tear and look
Were such as angels look and shed,
When man is by the world misled.
Gently I whispered, "Fanny, dear!
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Thomas Moore