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Alderson Matthew W.
How She Felt in Her First Corset, and Other Poems

HIS FACE IS HIS FORTUNE

 
"His face is his fortune;"
Yes, seldom we see
One for "tick" importune,
As boldly as he.
 
 
Like one who has riches
Acquired by gift,
He laughs at the stitches
Of gainer by thrift,
 
 
For face is his treasure,
And why keep in bank?
One cannot find pleasure
With pocket-book lank.
 
 
So credit he uses
Where'er it will pass,
And always abuses
The laboring class.
 
 
But "cheek" is like iron
That's coated with tin,
It has a nice face on,
But one rather thin.
 

A LOVE LETTER AND ITS ANSWER

A MONTANIAN TO HIS SWEETHEART

 
Darling, I love thee! Other words might tell
A trifle of how dear thou art to me,
But these tell all. Of thee I might have said,
And said in truth, at that, that all thy ways,
Thine every motion, look and glance, as well,
Did charm the inmost recess of my soul:
In words of praise, and those in justice due,
I might the beauties of thy mind portray;
For they outrival charms that in thy face
I see, as elsewhere I have failed to find:
Thy modesty, thy grace, thy love of all
That tends to elevate, to purify,
And make a fellow mortal happier,
I might have dwelt on to a length that thou,
And thou alone, deserves from one whose pen
Is feeble in thy praise as is mine own.
Still, had I done so, and withheld the words,
"I love thee!" I had never told thee half.
I love thee, darling! Ah! indeed, I do!
Beyond the shadow of a doubt, I love,
And such a one as any prince or king
Might gladly love and proudly call his own.
But, come to think, this love is all I have:
No titled rank is mine – no Astor's wealth;
And one you know, can't live on love alone;
Ah, no! But better starve for lack of bread
Than want of love; for when we starve for bread,
And hunger knaws with all its well-known force,
A day and all desire for food grows weak,
And in its stead one craves but rest and sleep:
These come, and few the days ere dreamless sleep
Supplies the place of all desires and pains.
But, starve for love, and when doth come relief?
The weary soul still lives, or drags along —
As pris'ner doomed for life goes to his work;
Ambitionless it moves, its purpose dead,
Yet ling'ring like 'twere powerless to go;
Struggling 'twixt hope and fear, as thro' the bars
A gleam of sunshine flitters now and then,
Glad'ning the while it shines, to leave more dark
The gloomy dungeon of an unloved life;
Moving, as moves the lifeless rock or ore
When those with life exert o'er it their power;
Living! Ah, yes! But devil never cursed
His vilest victim with a death so dread;
Standing, as stands an engine on the track,
Perfectly built in all its mighty parts,
Its boiler and its furnace amply fed,
Yet powerless. But, let the flame of love
Touch but one splinter of the waiting pyre,
And all is changed. In gladsome bounds the blaze
Leaps on and on, till burning with one flame,
The fire warms the slumb'ring soul to life;
Warms till, as love directs, its living proves —
When under wisdom's hands – man's highest bliss.
Yes, when love fills the heart, behold how strong,
How powerful one stands! His muscles ache
With pure strength, and long for that on which
Their latent power to show; and not alone
In idle longings doth a lover stand,
But works alike with both his head and hands
To gain desired ends. Doth one lack means?