John Kenyon Poems

An oyster, upon oozy bed,
Like his forefathers, born and bred,
It chanced, was wafted far and wide
...

I tarried on the strains to hang
Outfloating from yon ancient trees;
Strains from two airy harps, that rang
Responsive to the minstrel breeze.
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They choose not ill their lot who choose
All quietly to live and die,
By Science sheltered or the Muse,
In unpretending privacy.
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Like as one, erewhile pursuing,
Shouts him o'er his captured foe,
'Spite of all thy fleetest doing,
Now, thou Slave! behind me go.'
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I knew her, when my youthful time
Beyond the verge of manhood stood;
And she was in her glorious prime
Of freshly ripened womanhood.
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Ritchie! to whom it shall be given to view
And trace (none worthier) that strange river's swell,
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The chords thy ready fingers used to move
At fond request of dear domestic love,
Now grief, alas! hath tried that heart too much,
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Sweet friend, farewell! to whom propitious birth
Gave beauty—sense—the prosperous goods of earth;
To whom not less were faith and duty given,
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I've found a port. Hope—Fortune—Farewell ye!
Cheat others now. Enough ye've cheated me.
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A stripling Bonze (from Eastern clime
We bring the tale we have to tell)
Was standing, once upon a time,
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