October 22, 2007, 19:48
Horace Greeley on Demons, Witches and Ghosts
Famous newspaperman and founding Republican Horace Greeley, born in Amherst, NH, was a wordsmith of some note. I don't know how many poems he ever wrote, but I found the one below in a wonderful, disintegrating, old book I own titled "The New Hampshire Book, being Specimens of the Literature of the Granite State," published by Charles T. Gill in Nashville (now called Nashua) in 1844. (read on ... if you dare!) "Hand me the book my gentle friend, And let me o'er it glance. Whilst thou a patient hearing lend To what I may advance. "Spirits of Evil," Ah, my child! They are of fearful might: 'T is well thou seek'st to shun their guile; Be sure thou seek'st aright! "Devils!" — Ah yes, in this world of wo, They throng each trodden street, By day, by night — where the lonely go, Or where the joyous meet; But dread them not in shapes like this, Absurd, — grotesque, —abhorred; Ah no! they revel in forms of bliss, And shine at the sparkling board! "In glossy suits, — perchance of black, The Devil is oft arrayed; While the dapper boot on his sinister foot Does honor to Crispin's trade. Ah! not by outward shape of fear Is the cunning Devil shown; But the gamester's wile or the scoffer's sneer Shall make his presence known. "'Witches!' Ah yes, they too abound; But ne'er in a garb like this: They rather in silks than rags are found, And betray, as of old, with a kiss. When the witch looks out from a wanton's eye, Or up from the ruby bowl, Then if thou would'st not to Virtue die, Stand firm in thy strength of soul! "'Ghosts!' Ah my child! dread spectres they That tell of wasted powers; The short-lived elves of Folly's day; The ghosts of our murdered hours; Of friendship broken, love estranged, Of all that our hearts condemn; Of good repelled to evil changed; Beware, my boy! of them!" |
I'll go Horace one better:
THE TRICK TO A CARNIVORE’S HALLOWEEN TREAT
By B. Elwin Sherman
Of Halloween, has oft been said
That ghosts will rule the night.
My pappy, once alive, now dead,
Was born upon this night.
His spirit’s still rekindled when
October’s end approaches,
And I recall where I have been
In childhood’s best reproaches.
As children, did we shriek and cry
When All-Saints’ came to task
And Dad would don to terrify
His homemade kitchen mask?
T’was made of dough and carrot stick
Like blowfish laced with arrows.
When he burst in with such a trick?
It chilled us to our marrows.
But, better treat than mask designed
From food in Ware of Tupper,
Was Mom’s lament upon her find:
No vegetable for supper.
