A PIN

Oh! I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good, But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could.

The little chills run up and down my spine whene'er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.

And she p.r.i.c.ks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said-- When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain-- If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain.

A pin is such a tiny thing--of that there is no doubt-- Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!

She is wonderfully observing. When she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl.

And she is so sympathetic; to her friend who's much admired, She is often heard remarking: "Dear, you look so _worn_ and tired!"

And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, And she said: "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "It Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit."

Then she said: "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend."

And she left me with a feeling--most unpleasant, I aver-- That the whole world would despise me if it hadn't been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day; And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet) With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust; Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust.

Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.

THE COMING MAN

Oh! not for the great departed, Who formed our country's laws, And not for the bravest-hearted, Who died in freedom's cause, And not for some living hero To whom all bend the knee, My muse would raise her song of praise-- But for the man _to be_.

For out of the strife which woman Is pa.s.sing through to-day, A man that is more than human Shall yet be born, I say.

A man in whose pure spirit No dross of self will lurk; A man who is strong to cope with wrong, A man who is proud to work.

A man with hope undaunted, A man with G.o.dlike power, Shall come when he most is wanted, Shall come at the needed hour.

He shall silence the din and clamour Of clan disputing with clan, And toil's long fight with purse-proud might Shall triumph through this man.

I know he is coming, coming, To help, to guide, to save.

Though I hear no martial drumming, And see no flags that wave.

But the great soul travail of woman, And the bold free thought unfurled, Are heralds that say he is on the way-- The coming man of the world.

Mourn not for vanished ages, With their great heroic men, Who dwell in history's pages And live in the poet's pen.

For the grandest times are before us, And the world is yet to see The n.o.blest worth of this old earth In the men that are to be.