Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A BACHELOR-BOOKWORM'S COMPLAINT OF LAST PRESENTIAL ELECTION, by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE


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A BACHELOR-BOOKWORM'S COMPLAINT OF LAST PRESENTIAL ELECTION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: A man of peace, I never dared to marry
Last Line: I may -- who knows -- forgive both hayes and tilden!
Subject(s): Hayes, Rutherford B. (1822-1893); Tilden, Samuel J. (1814-1886); United States - Politics & Government


A MAN of peace, I never dared to marry,
Lover of tranquil hours, I dwelt apart;
Outside the realm where noisy schemes miscarry;
My only handmaids, Science, Learning, Art;
Oh! home of pleasant thought, of calm affection,
All blasted now by this last vile election!
One morn, absorbed in studious contemplation
Of what or whom, I cannot now recall,
A strident voice, "Rise! help to save the nation!"
Roared in mine ear, half bellow and half squall;
"Throw by your books, why, man, there's treason brewing;
Come, come with me, we'll block the march of ruin!"

My neighbor, Dobson -- all the gods confound him!
Seized, shook and hauled me from my cushioned seat;
(Just then I could have drugged the wretch, or drowned him;)
But the next moment on bewildered feet,
I trudged with him through dirty streets and weather,
That we might vote at the next poll together.

Vote! vote for whom? I'd not the faintest notion;
Little I recked of modern joys or woes;
Wrapped in Greek wars and ancient Rome's commotion,
What passed beneath my philosophic nose,
Seemed dim as glimmerings of a midnight taper
Marked from afar through autumn clouds and vapor!

At length we paused before a wood-work wicket,
Shrining the grimy guardian of the poll;
Into my hands they thrust a printed ticket,
An ink-besmeared, suspicious-looking scroll,
Which, ne'ertheless, held names of men whose action
Would cow -- they swore -- the brazen front of faction!

With scarce a glance, in vacant mood, I cast it;
That ticket soiled into as soiled a box;
A box, I thought, half vaguely as I passed it;
Whose guardian "Rough" looked wily as a fox,
Willing, no doubt, for any public hero,
To cheat ad lib. -- a Brutus, or a Nero!

Well! from that day, my peace of life was shattered;
Dobson would come, all lowering or ablaze
With joy, to shout -- (as if the issue mattered')
Now "Tilden's won!" now "glorious Ruthy Hayes!"
Vainly I argued, vainly vowed that d -- n me,
I didn't care three straws for Ruth or -- Sammy!

"Have I not Scipio and majestic Cato,
With their grand deeds to ponder yet?" I cried;
"Why, dunder-headed Dobson, will you prate so,
Of modern dwarfs of time and fate untried;"
"Untried!" quoth he, aghast at my iniquity;
"I'll back them both, by Jove! 'gainst all antiquity!"

And still he came, morning, and noon, and twilight,
Bringing, at last, his party henchmen too;
O! how I yearned to blow them through the skylight,
Or, at the gentlest, beat them black and blue;
Each cursed and threatened like some desperate Lara;
Meanwhile they quaffed and quaffed my best Madeira!

A point there is beyond the soul's defiance,
Which gained, a mortal man must fight, or fly;
Fight, if he knows the wily tricks of "science,"
Fly, if he knows not when to smite, and why;
Needless to say, in this disastrous matter,
Of the two ways, I wisely chose -- the latter!

I left my home; I fled to shades suburban,
Where an old aunt, as deaf as twenty posts,
(A fine antique, bedecked with lace and turban,)
Lived in a house unknown to rats or ghosts;
There, far from party conflicts, proud or petty,
I dwell at peace, with sober Madame Betty!

At peace! good lack, the universal virus
Of party strife had captive made the air,
The light, the very sun-motes shifting nigh us,
And thus, alas! it entered even there;
Up, down her stairs, how oft had I to stump it,
Shrieking the news through her infernal trumpet.

Baffled, once more I sought the public pass-ways,
But then, from morn to midnight's "witching noon,"
Monotonous as when some blatant ass brays,
The same mixed clamors rose 'neath sun and moon;
Tilden and Hayes in never-ceasing wrangle,
Who the vexed "snarl" shall ever disentangle?

Bank, hall, and market, counting-house and alley,
Patrician parlor and low bar-room den,
Echoed, as 'twere, cries of retreat or rally,
From brassy throats of many thousand men;
Such foolish boasts were blent with threats as silly,
Yet even the wise men babbled -- willy nilly.

The very nurse-maids with their baby charges,
Took sides, and squabbled; newsboys shouting loud,
Scuttled along the slippery pavement marges,
And burst like young bulls through the motley crowd
Of parsons, black-legs, dandies, hackmen, bummers;
Swollen each moment by some rash new comers!

Around the telegraph stands they surged and battled,
Till direful Hades seemed unloosed on earth;
Lies were exchanged, cudgels and brickbats rattled;
The veriest blackguard scorned the man of birth,
And tweaked his nose, or knocked his beaver double --
Ah me! the noise, the blows, the furious trouble!

I passed a gay "Bazaar," and glanced within it,
Of silks and satins, what a dazzling maze!
Fair tongues were wagging smartly; every minute,
"Of course 'tis Tilden!" "nay, not so, 'tis Hayes!"
Rose, with the rustle of bright garments blending --
A strife of voices, eager and unending!

You'd scarce believe it; but maids fair and tender,
Dancing from school, the merest slips of girls,
Shrilled Hayes or Tilden, and with fingers slender,
Caught and dragged fiercely at each others' curls;
Ill words they spake -- those inconsiderate misses --
From rosebud lips just framed for love and kisses!
. . . . .
Enough! the die is cast; from rage and riot,
I'll cross o'er mountain walls and ocean streams,
To seek and find again, that gracious quiet,
Whose charm hath left me, save in transient dreams;
In some far land and time, my spirit stilled then --
I may -- who knows -- forgive both Hayes and Tilden!





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