(From the Biglow Papers.)
This satire is aimed at certain American editors, who, as the vulgar proverb has it, "wait on Providence, and see which way the cat jumps,' and is as telling a piece of satire, in its line, as some passages in Mr. Lowell's Fable for Critics."-J. A. F.
I DU believe in Freedom's cause,
Ez fur away ez Paris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
In them infarnal Pharisees;
It's wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves an' triggers,
But libbaty's a kind o' thing
Thet don't agree with niggers.
I du believe the people want
A tax on teas and coffees,
Thet nuthin' aint extravygunt,
Purvidin I'm in office;
Fer I hev loved my country sence
My eye-teeth filled their sockets,
An' Uncle Sam I reverence,
Partic❜larly his pockets.
I du believe in any plan
O' levyin' the taxes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git just wut I axes;
I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,
Because it kind o' rouses
The folks to vote, an' keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses.
I du believe it's wise and good
To sen' out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An' orthydox conditions ;-
I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann.,
Nine thousan' more fer outfit,
An' me to recommend a man
The place 'ould jest about fit.
I du believe in special ways
O' prayin' an' convartin';
The bread comes back in many days,
An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;
I mean in preyin' till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An' in convartin' public trusts
To very private uses.
I du believe hard coin the stuff
Fer 'lectioneers to spout on;
The people's ollers soft enough
To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An' gives a good-sized junk to all;
I don't care how hard money is,
Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.
I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press's freedom ; To pint the people to the goal, An' in the traces lead 'em ; Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contract's squintin', An' withered be the nose that pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'!
I du believe thet I should give
Wut's his'n unto Cæsar,
Fer it's by him I move an' live,
Frum him my bread an' cheese air;
I du believe thet all o' me
Doth bear his souperscription,Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.
I du believe in prayer an' praise
To him thet hes the grantin'
O' jobs,—in every thin' thet pays,
But most of all in cantin'.
This doth my cup with marcies fill,
This lays all thought o' sin to rest⚫
I don't believe in princerple,
But, O, I du in interest.
I du believe in bein' this
Or thet, ez it may happen
One way or t'other hendiest is
To ketch the people nappin'.
It aint by princerples nor men
My preudent course is steadied;
I scent wich pays the best, an' then
Go into it baldheaded.
I du believe thet holdin' slaves
Comes nat❜ral to a Presidunt,
Let 'lone the row-de-dow it saves
To hev a Wal-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I couldn't ax with no face,
Without I'd bin, thru dry an' wet,
Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface.
I du believe wutever trash
'll keep the people in blindness,
Thet we the Mexicans can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness;
Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder'n' ball
Air good-will's strongest magnets,
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally,
Fer it's a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid rally;
This heth my faithful shepherd ben,
In pasturs sweet heth led me,
An' this'll keep the people green
To feed ez they hev fed me..
"Ivan the Terrible, having already become oid, was besieging Novgorod. The Boyards, seeing his feebleness, asked if he would not give the command of the assault to his son. His fury was so great at this proposal that nothing would appease him. His son prostrated himself at his feet. He repulsed him with a blow of such violence that in two days he died. Ivan then, in despair, became indifferent to the war, and only survived his son a few months."-Ten Years of Exile, by Madame de Stael.
He sat in silence on the ground,
The old and haughty Czar,
Lonely, though princes girt him round,
And leaders of the war;
He had cast his jewelled sabre,
That many a field had won,
To the earth beside his youthful dead-
His fair and first-born son.
With a robe of ermine for its bed,
Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed
Through the rich tent made way;
And a sad and solemn beauty
On the pallid face came down,
Which the lord of nations mutely watched,
In the dust, with his renown.
Low tones at last of woe and fear
From his full bosom broke-
A mournful thing it was to hear
How then the proud man spoke !
The voice that through the combat
Had shouted far and high,
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burdened with agony :
"There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath;
I call thee, and thou dost not speak-
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done.
For the honour of thy father's name,
Look up, look up, my son!
"Well might I know death's hue and mien
But on thine aspect, boy,
What till this moment have I seen
Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,
And bravest there of all:
How could I think a warrior's frame
Thus like a flower should fall?
"I will not bear that still cold look-
Rise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!
Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once more thy kindling eyes!
Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, arise!
"Didst thou not know I loved thee well?
Thou didst not! and art gone,
In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit,
If but one hour to learn
The secrets of the folded heart
That seemed to thee so stern.
"Thou were the first, the first fair child,
That in mine arms I pressed;
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled
Like summer on my breast!
I reared thee as an eagle,
To the chase thy steps I led ;
I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee-dead!
"Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,
And bury my red-sword and spear,
Chiefs, in my first-born's grave!
And leave me!-I have conquered,
I have slain-my work is done!
Whom have I slain ?-ye answer not;
Thou, too, art mute, my son !"
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