CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE POET-PRESIDENT-SPECIMENS OF HIS POETRY, AND SOME OF HIS MOST STRIKING AND WORTHY SAYINGS

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AND SENTIMENTS.

ANTS of Man," a poem in twenty-five stanzas, written by Mr. Adams in the winter of 1839, was deemed by some of his friends his best effort in poetry, although he thought himself that when he had finished "Dermot Mac Morrogh," eight years before, the Muse could do nothing better for him.

The poem called "A Vision," written while he was a law student in 1790, one of his first, Mr. Adams always liked; and, indeed said some time in one of his self-appreciative moments, that it was not only the finest he ever wrote himself, but also about as fine as he had ever seen. He was a great admirer and an extensive reader of poetry, and his judgment on such a point ought to be of weight, even when he was the subject himself. Few men of his day, perhaps, were better acquainted with the poetry of his own age, and of the past. With many of the writers of poetry he was personally acquainted; the works and biographies of all who had risen to any public note he knew well; and one of his most attractive lectures was on Shake

speare and his characters. He was the only President of the United States who could write poetry either good or bad; and was, perhaps, the most wonderfully and admirably versatile literary man among all of his countrymen.

THE PLAGUE IN THE FOREST.

Time was, when round the lion's den,
A peopled city raised its head;
'T was not inhabited by men,

But by four-footed beasts instead.
The lynx, the leopard, and the bear,
The tiger and the wolf, were there;
The hoof-defended steed;

The bull, prepared with horns to gore, The cat with claws, the tusky boar, And all the canine breed.

In social compact thus combined,
Together dwelt the beasts of prey;
Their murderous weapons all resigned,
And vowed each other not to slay.
Among them Reynard thrust his phiz;
Not hoof, nor horn, nor tusk was his,
For warfare all unfit;

He whispered to the royal dunce,
And gained a settlement at once;
His weapon was,—his wit.

One summer, by some fatal spell,

(Phoebus was peevish for some scoff),

The plague upon that city fell,

And swept the beasts by thousands off.

The lion, as became his part,

Loved his own people from his heart,
And taking counsel sage,
His peerage summoned to advise

And offer up a sacrifice,

To soothe Apollo's rage.

Quoth lion, "We are sinners all,
And even it must be confessed,
If among sheep I chance to fall,—
I, I am guilty as the rest.

To me the sight of lamb is curst,
It kindles in my throat a thirst,—
I struggle to refrain,-

Poor innocent! his blood so sweet!
His flesh so delicate to eat!

I find resistance vain.

Now to be candid, I must own

The sheep are weak and I am strong,

But when we find ourselves alone,

The sheep have never done me wrong.
And, since I purpose to reveal
All my offenses, nor conceal

One trespass from your view;

My appetite is made so keen,

That with the sheep the time has been
I took the shepherd too.

Then let us all our sins confess,
And whosesoe'r the blackest guilt,
To ease my people's deep distress,
Let his atoning blood be spilt.
My own confession now you hear,
Should none of deeper dye appear,
Your sentence freely give;
And if on me should fall the lot,
Make me the victim on the spot,
And let my people live."

The council with applauses rung,

To hear the Codrus of the wood; Though still some doubt suspended hung, If he would make his promise good. Quoth Reynard, "Since the world was made, Was ever love like this displayed?

Let us like subjects true

Swear, as before your feet we fall,
Sooner than you should die for all,

We all will die for you.

But, please your majesty, I deem,
Submissive to your royal grace,
You hold in far too high esteem

That paltry, poltroon, sheepish race;
For oft, reflecting in the shade,
I ask myself why sheep were made
By all-creating power?

And howsoe'er I tax my mind,
This the sole reason I can find,
For lions to devour.

And as for eating now and then,

As well the shepherd as the sheep,
How can that braggart breed of men

Expect with you the peace to keep?
"T is time their blustering boast to stem,
That all the world was made for them,
And prove creation's plan;
Teach them by evidence profuse
That man was made for lion's use,
Not lions made for man."

And now the noble peers begin,

And, cheered with such examples bright, Disclosing each his secret sin,

Some midnight murder brought to light; Reynard was counsel for them all, No crime the assembly could appall, But he could botch with paint: Hark! as his honeyed accents roll, Each tiger is a gentle soul:

Each blood-hound is a saint.

When each had told his tale in turn,
The long-eared beast of burden came,
And meekly said, "My bowels yearn
To make confusion of my shame;
But I remember on a time
I passed, not thinking of a crime,

A haystack on my way:

His lure some tempting devil spread,
I stretched across the fence my head,
And cropped-a lock of hay.”

"O, monster! villain!" Reynard cried,
"No longer seek the victim, sire;
Nor why your subjects thus have died,
To expiate Apollo's ire."

The council with one voice decreed;
All joined to execrate the deed,

"What, steal another's grass!"

The blackest crime their lives could show,
Was washed as white as virgin snow;
The victim was-The Ass.

MY SHEPHERD IS THE LORD ON HIGH.

My Shepherd is the Lord on high;
His hand supplies me still;
In pastures green he makes me lie,
Beside the rippling rill:

He cheers my soul, relieves my woes,

His glory to display ;

The paths of righteousness he shows,

And leads me in his way.

Though walking through death's dismal shade,

No evil will I fear;

Thy rod, thy staff shall lend me aid,

For thou art ever near:

For me a table thou dost spread

In presence of my foes;

With oil thou dost anoint my head;

By thee my cup o'erflows.

Thy goodness and thy mercy sure
Shall bless me all my days;
And I, with lips sincere and pure,
Will celebrate thy praise.