The poet may tread earth sadly,
Yet is he Dreamland's king,
And the fays at his bidding gladly
Visions of beauty bring;
But his joys will be rarer, finer,
Away from this earthly stage,
When he, who is now a minor,
Comes of age.

For him soft leaflets cluster
Of violet, ivy, and vine;
For him leaps livelier lustre
From purple depth of wine:
Pauses the song of the Sirens,
Closes the Sybil's page,
Till he, whom earth environs,
Comes of age.

He seems to the moiling million
A very pestilent knave;
Yet the sky is his pavilion,
And the maiden moon his slave;
And the sea, with its myriad laughter,
And maddening freaks of rage,
Owns him who, a king hereafter,
Comes of age.

The wailing winds and the thunder,
And the roar of a war that whirls,
Breaking great realms asunder,
And the merry songs of girls,
All in one music mingle,
All the great joys presage,
Of the poet who, royal and single,
Comes of age.

Roll on, O tardy cycle,
Whose death is the poet's birth!
Blow soon, great trump of Michael,
Shatter the crust of earth!
Let the slow spheres turn faster;
Hasten the heritage
Of him who, as life's true master,
Comes of age!

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:
It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see,—
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, 'Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,'—
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game 'he did not understand.'

In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs,—
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers,—that's wax.

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,—
Which the same I am free to maintain.