Weekly Trinity journal., 1872-03-16

Pshaw Good Editors, don't angry get
Because rhymer thinks to joke bit
My note We shall not have, but l will send
Ye fifteen dollars by our mailbag friend
Whene'er get them now, L have them
not;
When had ONE have the time forgot.
IN make the ERA wait this time, will,
And for the SIGN AL-it's puny bill
hope it's Editor will take advice,
And raise his paper to a decent price;
hate to see true merit sold so low,
For in its market l may sometime GO
Not to be sold, but for the famed awards
The world bestows on its successful bards.
Not much l hope, though, of the thought
less throng
That throws its laurels to the fools of song
And crowns a poet FAMOUS /" with his
lines
So tangled up with bees, and birds, and
vines,
You cannot find two ideas joined together,
Tho you should read them in the calmest
weather.
"And for, BECAUSE" he tells us that he
sings
" Because " the birds have many-colored
wings;
Also, "because" the sunshine and the
breeze
Gets tangled in the edges of the seas
And tropic trees with foliage overgrown-
Yet where he finds them in this Northern
Zone,
A secret is that to himself he keeps
He does not find them on Sierra's sleeps,
(From his books title, one would think
he did
lie must have found them in some cavern
hid)-
For have clambered DER them many a
day
And not tropic tree found in my way
And dwelt among them, too, for many
And hunted DER them for their antlered
deer
And sought and killed their far-famed
mountain bear
And dwelt alone, for days, where few
would dare
And climbed their submits Of mid-sum-
mer snow
For naught but the wide views spread
far below
Lone, giant peaks where nothing grew
from where
Swung blue concave in the neither air
As, far below, in Summers clearest days,
The wales Of Earth were lost in sky-blue
haze
And slept, all lonely, when the grizzly's
tread
Would rustic in the leaves so near my
bed,
| could have pitched a biscuit in his jaws,
And yet | did not do it--for, because"
I'd left them all, close by, on bark shelf,
And, being hungry, he had helped him
self.
SO it is ever. Milton, blind and old,
Lived pinched with want, while fame and
bounteous gold
Were showered upon tho mag pics Of
weak song
By Charles, the Second, and his courtier
throng;
But short their reigns of vanity and pride,
Their names were dead ere they, them
selves, had died.
And though have not sent one cherished
dove
Forth DER the waters, with its wreaths Of
love,
Among the surges Of its men, to learn
II it with leaves of laurel would return
For l have judged the present by the
past;
Though men seek Truth, they ever see
her last
Still clinging to the half-blown truths of
old,
Until from them they've sifted all their
gold,
And they are cast aside, when they no
more
Can aid them in their progress as Of yore.
Yet, looking upward DER Truths giant
hill,
For more of light the aspiring soul to
While all behind them they have over
grown,
And all before them is vague unknown
Then, for time, they their own souls
deceive
With phantom ideas that their brains
conceive;
They preach, they teach, they lecture long
and late,
Some thoughtless thought the theme of
vain debate
Some bauble idea, lauded to the sky
They test its truth and find weak lie.
Each cries " Eureka !' at some glimmer-
ing spark
They rush TO see it and, behold It's dark!
Until grown weary of their oft defeats,
Amids the follies of their vain conceits,
They see the Truth some lonely soul has
won
From full glimpse of Life's eternal
Sun;
And led by him, still higher reaches gain
OF love and life on Life's ascending plane
Form to throngs will natures soul reveal
The truths eternal hid beneath her seal F;
And save to him who naught but her
adores
Are ope'd the caskets of her boundless
stores.
Julian HApIpY