Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

TO A SHRED OF LINEN.

WOULD they swept cleaner!— Here's a littering shred Of linen left behind—a vile reproach To all good housewifery. Right glad am I, That no neat lady, train'd in ancient times Of pudding-making, and of sampler-work, And speckless sanctity of household care, Hath happened here, to spy thee. She, no doubt, Keen looking through her spectacles, would say, "This comes of reading books:"—or some spruce beau Essenc'd and lily-handed, had he chanc'd To scan thy slight superfices, 'twould be "This comes of writing poetry."—Well—well— Come forth—offender!—hast thou aught to say? Canst thou by merry thought, or quaint conceit, Repay this risk, that I have run for thee? —Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself Into thine elements. I see the stalk And bright, blue flower of flax, which erst o'erspread That fertile land, where mighty Moses stretch'd

His rod miraculous. I see thy bloom Tinging, too scantly, these New England vales. But, lo! the sturdy farmer lifts his flail, To crush thy bones unpitying, and his wife With 'kerchief'd head, and eyes brimful of dust, Thy fibrous nerves, with hatchel-tooth divides. —I hear a voice of music—and behold! The ruddy damsel singeth at her wheel, While by her side the rustic lover sits. Perchance, his shrewd eye secretly doth count The mass of skews, which, hanging on the wall, Increaseth day by day. Perchance his thoughts (For men have deeper minds than women—sure!) Is calculating what a thrifty wife The maid will make; and how his dairy shelves Shall groan beneath the weight of golden cheese, Made by her dexterous hand, while many a keg And pot of butter, to the market borne, May, transmigrated, on his back appear, In new thanksgiving coats. Fain would I ask, Mine own New England, for thy once loved wheel, By sofa and piano quite displac'd. Why dost thou banish from thy parlor-hearth That old Hygeian harp, whose magic rul'd Dyspepsia, as the minstrel-shepherd's skill Exorcis'd Saul's ennui? There was no need, In those good times, of callisthenics, sure,

And there was less of gadding, and far more Of home-born, heart-felt comfort, rooted strong In industry, and bearing such rare fruit, As wealth might never purchase. But come back, Thou shred of linen. I did let thee drop, In my harangue, as wiser ones have lost The thread of their discourse. What was thy lot When the rough battery of the loom had stretch'd And knit thy sinews, and the chemist sun Thy brown complexion bleach'd? Methinks I scan Some idiosyncrasy, that marks thee out A defunct pillow-case.—Did the trim guest, To the best chamber usher'd, e'er admire The snowy whiteness of thy freshen'd youth Feeding thy vanity? or some sweet babe Pour its pure dream of innocence on thee? Say, hast thou listen'd to the sick one's moan, When there was none to comfort?—or shrunk back From the dire tossings of the proud man's brow? Or gather'd from young beauty's restless sigh A tale of untold love? Still, close and mute!…Wilt tell no secrets, ha?—Well then, go down, With all thy churl-kept hoard of curious lore, In majesty and mystery, go down Into the paper-mill, and from its jaws,

Stainless and smooth, emerge.—Happy shall be The renovation, if on thy fair page Wisdom and truth, their hallow'd lineaments Trace for posterity. So shall thine end Be better than thy birth, and worthier bard Thine apotheosis immortalise.