MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM."
225
Blind as a beetle that way,—for amends,
Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir!
Ride that hot, hardmouthed, horrid horse of yours.
Laugh while it lightens, play with the great dog,
Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear,
Never brag, never bluster, never blush,—
In short, you 've pluck, when I'm a coward—there!
I know it, I can't help it,—folly or no,
I 'm paralyzed, my hand 's no more a hand,
Nor my head, a head, in danger: you can smile
And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift's not mine.
Would you swap for mine? No! but you 'd add my gift
To yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times,
Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch,
Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so much
Being dressed gaily, making strangers stare,
Eating nice things; when I'd amuse myself,
I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain
I 'm—now the President, now, Jenny Lind,
Now, Emerson, now, the Benicia Boy—
With all the civilized world a-wondering
And worshipping! I know it 's folly and worse:
I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul,
But I can't cure myself,—despond, despair,
Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir!
Ride that hot, hardmouthed, horrid horse of yours.
Laugh while it lightens, play with the great dog,
Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear,
Never brag, never bluster, never blush,—
In short, you 've pluck, when I'm a coward—there!
I know it, I can't help it,—folly or no,
I 'm paralyzed, my hand 's no more a hand,
Nor my head, a head, in danger: you can smile
And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift's not mine.
Would you swap for mine? No! but you 'd add my gift
To yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times,
Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch,
Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so much
Being dressed gaily, making strangers stare,
Eating nice things; when I'd amuse myself,
I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain
I 'm—now the President, now, Jenny Lind,
Now, Emerson, now, the Benicia Boy—
With all the civilized world a-wondering
And worshipping! I know it 's folly and worse:
I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul,
But I can't cure myself,—despond, despair,
