National Republican., 1874-05-08
a NEW POET.

EXTRACTS FROM THE FORTHCOMING
VOLUME OF COL. JAMES R. YOUNG
AN OFFICE-HoLDER UNDER THI
UNITED STATES SENATE WHO IS 4
LITERARY CHARACTER.
Colonel James R. Young, late editress Of Franl
Leslie's Lady's Journal, whose ability displaye,
on that periodical secured him the position o
executive clerk Of the United States Senate, is
brother Of John Russell Young, the present New
York correspondent Of the New York Herald from
Paris. Colonel James R. Young, Of Washington
has not, by this accident, settled into humdrun
life, but, like his confreres, Whitman, Stoddart
and Bancroft, has determined to devote himsel
to authorship. He will soon publish q volume o
poems, Of which the following verse is the prem
THE HAUNTED HEN.
hen, whom the bounty of Providence made
A parent prolific, with motherly pride
Which 70 hatch inio life she then patiently tried
But whilst on those eggs she was orooding warm
In placid glow OF paternal pleasure,
Chill was the change as che spied with alarm
A weasel. who watched her, aware Of her
And this hen henccforth was SO haunted by
The chilly charm OF that weRsels eye,
That, night by night, In her dreaming sleep.
1t was ever the self same dream she drcam'd;
How, changed to q weasel, she crept ~ the deep
OF the dark to tho hen-roost, and stealthily
seem'd
With the craft of a weasel to suck and destroy
Those eggs that by day, were the poor fowFs JOY.
The concluding poem of this forthcoming vol
ume, by happy accident possibly, although more
probably by design, is on kindred subject. 1t is
marked by deep feeling, rs we'll as q high moral
tone, and, did we not know that Col. Young is the
author we should bc inclined to ascribe It to that
eminenily good man, Deacon Richard Smith, Of
Cincinnati The whole volume, SO for as we have
had an opportunity of judging, is worthy Of this
closing inspiration:
THE IMPATIENT HEN.
This is a tale of q poor old hen
That sat on eggs, exactly ten;
She made nest with pride and care,
And weather foul or weather fair,
Ycu always found her at her post,
For patience was her daily boast.
Alas! how OF it is our lot
To brag of what we have not goti
This will apply to hens and men
And boys and girls.
Days passed, and when
The sun began to warmer grow,
The grass and leaves began to show
Their twinkling green on hill and vale,
When sweet and pleasant was the gale,
This queer old hen began to l0ng
To Join once more the noisy thrOng
Or idle gossips-half a score
That strutted by the old barn-door.
"Oh dearI oh dearI here am tied!
A weary lot is mine," she sighed;
Why don't these tiresome chickens hatch?
II worries me in heart and legs
TO sit so long upon these eggs.
I'm sick of pinng here at home;
oh chicks, chicks. chicks, why don't you come
Your little houses white and warm
I've sheltered from the angry storm.
' There's Mother Dominique next door;
Her darlings number twenty -four,
And they've been out this week or more,
And now she wandcrs at her ease,
As proud and happy as you please.
So Stir yoar pinky little pegs.
My yellow bills, come out and walk,
Or else I'll doubt my eggs are eggs
And think they are but Jumps Of CHALK"
Then something rash and sad befclL
This old hen pecked each brittle shell,
And (not so wonderful to tell,)
Her treatment, which was very rude,
Killed on the spot her tiny brood
And now, despiscd by fowls and men,
She lives broken-hearted hen.
This is the moral OF my lay
l 0 reap success in work or play,
Why spoil whatever you've begun
Through eagerncss to have II done?
Remember poor Dame Partlets fate;
Don't be impatient-learn to wait!
Since the volume was put to press Mr. Young
has written some sweet cremation poetry,
from which we make the following extracts:
This world is all fleeting show,
How sweet from 1t to pass,
To vanish up the chimney as
Carbonic acid gas.
Don't Jay me on the river bank
Amid the fragrant flowers,
Nor where the grass is watered by
Tbs early summer showers;
But put me in the kitchen range,
And open wide the damper;
And then my yaporous remains
Can up the chimney scamper.
We lit the poor fellow at dead OF night,
The carcass continually turning,
In order that every side might get its share
Ofthis new patent process Of burning.
No pelting rain-storm came wetting the pile
OffaggOts to which we had bound him;
No BabcOck eXtinguisher deadened the glare
That formed such q halo around him.
THE MAIDEN's PRAYER.
Cremate me, mother darling, cremate me, mother
dear,
Also my twenty-dollar braid, likewise my new
back hair;
Let not the worms feed on this cheek; ali save
me from that fate;
Incin'rate, mother darling-incin'rate or cremate
LITTLE WILLIE.
Little Willie, we have burned him,
The heat he did not feel,
As so tenderly we turned him,
While we held him by the heel.