The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1877-07-28
The Papa in Poetry.

Mr.. Bret Harte published in a recent num-
ber of popular magazine short poem in
spired by one of his sons. The lines were
entitled "On a Naughty Little Boy, Sleep
ing" and are as follows:
Just now missed from hall and stair
joyful treble that had grown
AS dear to me as that grave tone
That tells the world my older care.
And little footsteps on the floor
Were stayed. L laid ASIDE my pen,
Forgot my theme, and list ened-then
Stole softly to the library door.
No sight! no sound!-a moments freak
OF fancy thrilled my pulses through;
"If If-no".and yet, that fancy drew
A fathers blood from heart and cheek
And then Il found him! There he Law,
Surprised by sleep, caught in the act
The rosy vandal who had sacked
His little town and called it play.
The shattered vase; the broken jar;
match still SIN ouldering on the foor
The inkstand's purple pool of gore;
The chessmen scattered near and tar.
Strewn leaves Of albums lightly pressed
This wicked "Baby of the Woods;'
In fact, OF half the household goods
This son and heir was seized-possesse6.
Yet all in vain, for sleep had caught
The hand that reached, the feet that strayed
And fallen in the ambuscade
The victor was himself o'erwrought.
What though torn leaves and tattered book
Still testified his deep dsgracel
stopped and kissed the inky face,
With its demure and calm outlook
Then back stole, and half beguiled
My guilt in trust that when my sleep
Should come, there might be One who'd keep
An equal mercy for His child.
The average editor, in selecting literary
articles for his columns is perhaps attracted
more by freshness and the charm of popular
authors name than by intrinsic excellence OF
thought or mposition-a and,so this. .poemlhas
been widely copied, although it is not especi-
ally creditable, and really lacks much OF
reaching the height which Mr.. Harte has
sometimes attained, as even himself must
have known, for even poets see difference
between their productions. But not
content with this disparaging reflection, a
correspondent of the Boston Traveller sug-
gests suspiciously that Mr.. Harte's poem
smacks strongly ofa recent piece of verse in
the Pail Mall Gazette entitled "The Toys"
and reading as follows:
My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes,
And moved and spoke in quiet, grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobeyed,
1 struck him, and dismissed
With hard words and unkissed-
His mother, who was patient. being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
i visited his bed;
But found him siumberng deep,
With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And /, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For on table down beside his head,
He had put within his reach,
box of counters, and red-veined stone,
piece of glass, abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
bottle with blue BELLS
And two French copper coins, ranged ithere with
careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night prayed
To God, wept and said
All, when at last we lie with tranced breath,
Not vexing thee in death,
And thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
The great, commanded good,
Then fatherly, not less
Than I, whom thou hast moulded from the CLAW.
Thou'lt leave thy wrath and say
81 win be sorry for thy childishness."
1t is certainly difficult to see wherein exists
any noticeable resemblance between these
two poems. Years ago, when the standard of
wit in this city was not so high as it is
at the present day there used to be
d WAlOh oohSN why bu6
old city hall was like Bunker Hill monument.
The answer which nobody ever guessed, being
'Because they are both out of DOORS" About
the same degree of resemblance exists be-
tween these two bits OF verse. They are
each about a boy, and there the likeness
ends. The Traveller says they contain ''sm-
ilarity but not an identity of thought" This
is saying too much. One poem shows a
harsh and unjust parent stricken by sort OF
self-conceited remorse at having dealt unkind-
ly with his motheress child; the other an in
dulgent father who seems to have loved his
naughty boy all the better for his naughti.
ness. Rhyme, rhythm, measure, all are differ
ent. The picus reflection in the closing lines
is perhaps similar, but that is common prop.
erty, and has been ever since the words were
written, "Even as father pitieth his chill
dren." So long as boys are born to English
speaking poets, so long will the latter write
verses about them; and they must all write
in the English language, and as boys are very
much alike, say very nearly The same things