Poems (Greenwood)/Wanted.—a theme
WANTED.—A THEME.
The spring is here again, mother! she bursts upon our sight, Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and love, and light; The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, hither come; And earth is very fair, mother, far round our cottage-home.
A spell is on my heart, mother, a deep, mysterious spell; I feel the mighty tide of song within my spirit swell! Then find for me a theme, mother, a theme to write upon,Ere breaks that spell, and ere that tide has ebbed away and gone.
I could write of the fields, mother, the dark and waving woods,The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the waterfalls and floods; But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat,That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street.
I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling them left and right;All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light; But though 'twere all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake,And they 'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake.
I could write of the West, mother,—tell many a backwoods tale; But "Mary Clavers" long ago chanced on that happy trail.And "went it with a rush," mother, as all the world agree,And made "a powerful sight" of fun, and left no laugh for me.
I could write on the wars, mother, the soldier's glorious life,—I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of strife; But I 've avowed "peace principles," and may not call them back,So I cannot write of war, mother,—I must take another tack.
The terrible might do, mother,—some wild, unearthly story; I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory,But then that "Raven" there, mother, above that "chamber-door," I asked him if 't would be a hit,—quoth the raven, "Never more!"
I might plead for the poor, mother, the wronged and the oppressed, And give a flash of freedom's fire, deep burning in my breast; But they 'd say I was a fanatic a-battling with weak straws Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws.
The fooleries of the beau-monde, mother, should I write on as I feel, The ladies fair would vote me odd, and not at all genteel; And ah, the lordly sex, mother, their ire would heaviest fall,—They 'd vow I was a sour old maid,—and that were worse than all!
I think I 'll off to bed, mother,—I'm tired, and then it's late; The horse I rode this afternoon had such a shocking gait! So do not early break, mother, my deep and soft repose, For I love a morning doze, mother,—I love a morning doze.