  On being asked to write an original poem. "There's no new thing under the sun," Said the ancient priest and preacher; What seems now new is only done To quicken some old feature That lies effete, or badly worn, And lacks its pristine rigor, That needs an energizing touch To give it life and vigor. The sun that shines on us to-day, Shone on our ancient parents Who walked upon the primal clay; And science fully warrants That not one atom has been lost, And not one atom added To all the atom matter host, Although some forms have faded. The gorgeous colors that are cast On cloud-land morn and even, Are but reflections of the past That erst had spangled heaven With glories from that mystic throne Whose blendings none can rival, But whose expiring tints, alone, Admit of a revival. The rain that drops has dropped before; Our flowers were another's; The songs we sing were sung of yore By long departed brothers; The sounds we hear are but the tones Or echoes of the past; We live among the mouldering bones Of forms too frail to last. Then ask me not for something new, All things are second-handed, The old may sometimes be more true Than that more lately branded; But taking things as best we can, We know 'tis only human To shun a second-handed man, Or a second-handed woman. But let us not be too severe On second-handed matter, For nothing seems to be more clear Than that we should not flatter Our souls into a fatal state, Of scoffing at the common, For who can tell what cruel fate May make of man or woman? |
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