When Prometheus Stole The Flame.

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

        When Prometheus stole the flame,
        Did he know what with it came?
        Did he look afar and see
        All the blessings that would be?
        Could he view the gentle gloam
        Of the fireside of a home?
        Or the centre-table's blaze,
        Turning evenings into days,
        Where, encamped with quiet zest,
        Happy children toil and rest?
        Did he view the parlor's gleam,
        Or the 'wildering palace dream?
        See the torch's floating glare
        Burn its way through walls of air;
        Or, through under-regions trace
        Earth's remotest hiding-place?
        Did he see the flags of steam
        O'er the cities flash and gleam?
        To his vision, like a star,
        Did the light-house gleam afar,
        Which another eye should be
        To the traveller of the sea?
        If Prometheus, tortured - bound -
        Knew the blessings man had found,
        Then his sufferings must have been
        Soothed by blessings from within.

                    *            *            *            *            *

        When Prometheus stole the flame,
        Did he know what with it came?
        Did he see the fire up-steal,
        Rise, and take its midnight meal?
        Did he view the palace wall
        Stumble 'mid the smoke and fall?
        Did he see some cherished home
        Feed a fiery ocean's foam?
        Did he hear the war-alarms
        Of a nation called to arms,
        And behold men, in their ire,
        Murdering men with bolts of fire?
        Did some miscreant cross his sight,
        Bent on booty or on spite,
        Stealing steps into the dark,
        With the incendiary spark?
        Did there, faint and haggard, rise
        Ghosts before his startled eyes,
        Godly men of scathless name,
        Felled for fuel to the flame;
        In a short-lived earthly hell
        Thrown, for voicing heaven too well?
        If he knew that glittering thing
        Would to Earth such curses bring,
        Then his sufferings may have been
        Edged with poison from within.



[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]

MARCH 20, 18 - .

    Somehow, the fire I saw not long ago
    Has subsequently chased me, high and low;
    Runs back and forth betwixt my head and heart,
    And shows no disposition to depart.

    And so I've wandered 'round (too much, perhaps),
    And got acquainted with the fireman chaps,
    And planted good cigars where they would seem
    Inclined to grow up helpful to my scheme.
    (I never smoke; but, travelling near and far,
    There's few things help one like a good cigar;
    When safe between a neighbor's teeth 'tis hung,
    It oils his ways and loosens up his tongue.
    I get more from cigars, before it's through,
    Than all the fellows that I give them to.
    Perhaps they should not smoke; but, if they will,
    My method helps their families foot the bill.)

    Not long ago a sturdy fireman lad,
    Who smoked up every last cigar I had,
    Unrolled the following story to my view,
    Which I believe (conditionally) true:

William McKendree Carleton

William McKendree Carleton, commonly known as Will Carleton, was an American poet from Michigan. He gained significant recognition for his work that depicted rural life, with some of his most famous pieces including 'Over the Hill to the Poorhouse' and 'Betsy and I Are Out'. His writings often focused on social issues and the hardships faced by ordinary people. Carleton's style was straightforward, and he was well-known for his ability to capture the essence of American rural life in the 19th century.

William McKendree Carleton

The Lovely Young Man.

William McKendree Carleton, Simple Poetry

Vice.

William McKendree Carleton, Simple Poetry

Our Army Of The Dead.

William McKendree Carleton, Simple Poetry

If I'D A Million Millions.

William McKendree Carleton, Simple Poetry

English

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Fire.

[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]


MARCH 15, 18 - .

    Fire! - fire! - fire! - fire! - it sets me in a craze
    To see a first-class building all ablaze;
    A burning house resembles, when I'm nigh,
    Some old acquaintance just about to die;
    For structures that a person often sees
    Look some like human beings - same as trees.
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    That I'd know anywhere - just by their face.)
    And when, last night, some bells began to cry,
    And big fire-engines rushed and rattled by,
    In just three minutes down the stairs I strode,
    And hurried - somewhat dressed - into the road
    (Partly to help a bit, if so might be,
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Flash:" The Fireman's Story.

    "Flash" was a white-foot sorrel, an' run on Number Three:
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    Full o' turbulent, sour looks, an' small, sarcastic ways;
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Fables For The Holy Alliance. Fable Vii. The Extinguishers.

PROEM.

Tho' soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,
Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too much on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes think--
    Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,--

And reasoners, whether clad in pink
Or red or blue, are on the brink
    (Nine cases out of ten) of treason

Not many soldiers, I believe, are
    As fond of liberty as Mina;
Else--woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever
    Once turns into a Scarletina!
For then--but hold--'tis best to veil
My meaning in the following tale:--

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great,
Just come into a large estate,
Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors,
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How We Fought The Fire.

I.

        'Twas a drowsy night on Tompkins Hill:
        The very leaves of the trees lay still;
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        And even the stars seemed half asleep,
        And winked and blinked at the roofs below,
        As yearning for morn, that they might go.
        The streets as stolid and still did lie
        As they would have done if streets could die;
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        And not a cottage within the town,
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        Away in the west a stacken-cloud,
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Prometheus Or The Poet's Forethought

Of Prometheus, how undaunted
    On Olympus' shining bastions
His audacious foot he planted,
Myths are told and songs are chanted,
    Full of promptings and suggestions.

Beautiful is the tradition
    Of that flight through heavenly portals,
The old classic superstition
Of the theft and the transmission
    Of the fire of the Immortals!

First the deed of noble daring,
    Born of heavenward aspiration,
Then the fire with mortals sharing,
Then the vulture,--the despairing
    Cry of pain on crags Caucasian.

All is but a symbol painted
    Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer;
Only those are crowned and sainted
Who with grief have been acquainted,
    Making nations nobler, freer.

In their feverish exultations,
    In thei...

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The Dead Stowaway.

    He lay on the beach, just out of the reach
        Of waves that had cast him by:
    With fingers grim they reached for him
        As often as they came nigh.
    The shore-face brown had a surly frown,
        And glanced at the dancing sea,
    As if to say, "Take back the clay
        You tossed this morning at me."
    Great fragments rude, by the shipwreck strewed,
        Had found by this wreck a place;
    He had grasped them tight, and hope-strewn fright
        Sat still on the bloated face.
    Battered and bruised, forever abused,
        He lay by the heartless sea,
    As if Heaven's aid had never been made
        For a villain such as he.
    The fetter's mark lay heavy and dark
        Around the pulseless wrists;
    The harde...

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