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THE
POETICAL WORKS
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
HOUSEHOLD EDITION.
BOSTON:
JAMES E. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co.
1877.
COPYRIGHT, 1877.
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.
FS
1955
1871
UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co.,
CAMBRIDGE,
CONTENTS.
y 5
\ \ PAGE
To MY READERS . iii
EARLIER POEMS (1830-1836).
Old Ironsides 1
The Last Leaf 1
The Cambridge Churchyard 2
To an Insect 3
The Dilemma 4
My Aunt 4
Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian 5
Daily Trials, by a Sensitive Man 6
Evening, by a Tailor 6
The Dorchester Giant 7
To the Portrait of "A Lady" 8
The Comet 9
The Music-Grinders 9
The Treadmill Song 10
The September Gale n
The Height of the Ridiculous 12
The Last Reader 12
Poetry : A Metrical Essay 13
ADDITIONAL POEMS (1837-1848).
The Pilgrim's Vision 27
The Steamboat . 29
Lexington 29
On Lending a Punch-Bowl 30
*A Song for the Centennial Celebration of Harvard College, 1836 32
The Island Hunting-Song 33
Departed Days 33
The Only Daughter 33
Song written for the Dinner given to Charles Dickens, by the Young Men of Boston,
Feb. 1, 1842 34
Lines recited at the Berkshire Festival 35
Nux Postccenatica 3g
Verses for After-Dinner 38
A Modest Request, complied with after the Dinner at President Everett's Inaugura-
tion 39
The Stethoscope Song 43
Extracts from a Medical Poem 45
The Parting Word 46
A Song of Other Days 47
VI CONTENTS.
PAGE
Song for a Temperance Dinner to which Ladies were invited (New York Mercantile
Library Association, Nov., 1842) ... 48
A Sentiment 48
A Rhymed Lesson 49
An After-Dinner Poem 64
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS (1830, ETC.).
The Meeting of the Dryads 71
The Mysterious Visitor 72
The Toadstool 73
The Spectre Pig 74
To a Caged Lion 75
The Star and the Water-Lily 76
Illustration of a Picture 77
A Roman Aqueduct 77
From a Bachelor's Private Journal 78
La Grisette 78
Our Yankee Girls 79
L'Inconnue 79
Stanzas 80
Lines by a Clerk 80
The Philosopher to his Love 80
The Poet's Lot 81
To a blank Sheet of Paper 81
To the Portrait of " A Gentleman " 82
The Ballad of the Oysterman 83
A Noontide Lyric 84
The Hot Season 84
A Portrait 85
An Evening Thought 85
The Wasp and the Hornet 86
" Qui Vive " 86
SONGS IN MANY KEYS (1849-1861) 87
I. 1849-1856.
Agnes 89
The Ploughman 97
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS (1850-1856).
Spring 99
The Study 100
The Bells 102
Non-Resistance 103
The Moral Bully 103
The Mind's Diet ' 105
Our Limitations f 105
The Old Player '.*.*.' 105
The Island Ruin * . 108
The Banker's Dinner . HI
The Mysterious Illness .115
A Mother's Secret H7
The Secret of the Stars * . 121
A Poem. Dedication of the Pittsfield Cemetery, September 9, 1850 123
To Governor Swain . 125
To an English Friend
CONTENTS. Vii
PAGE
VIGNETTES.
After a Lecture on Wordsworth 127
After a Lecture on Moore 128
After a Lecture on Keats 129
After a Lecture on Shelley 129
At the close of a Course of Lectures 130
The Hudson 131
A Poem for the Meeting of the American Medical Association at New York, May 5,
1853 132
A Sentiment 133
The New Eden 134
Semi-centennial Celebration of the New England Society, New York, Dec. 22, 1855 136
Farewell to J. R. Lowell 137
For the Meeting of the Burns Club .137
Ode for Washington's Birthday 138
Birthday of Daniel Webster 139
II. 1857-1861.
The Voiceless 141
The Two Streams 141
The Promise 141
Avis 142
The Living Temple 143
At a Birthday Festival 144
A Birthday Tribute 144
The Gray Chief 145
The Last Look 145
In Memory of Charles Wentworth Upham, Jr. 146
Martha 146
Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard College 147
The Parting Song 148
For the Meeting of the National Sanitary Association 149
For the Burns Centennial Celebration 150
Boston Common. Three Pictures 151
The Old Man of the Sea 151
International Ode 152
Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline 153
Vive La France 153
Under the Washington Elm, Cambridge 154
Freedom, our Queen 155
Army Hymn .155
Parting Hymn 15 g
The Flower of Liberty .156
The Sweet Little Man . * ' 157
Union and Liberty .158
POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE (1857-1858).
The Chambered Nautilus Id
Sun and Shadow 162
The Two Armies I 6 o
Musa 163
A Parting Health 164
What we all Think 165
Spring has come 155
viii CONTENTS.
PAGE
Prologue 166
Latter-Day Warnings 168
Album Verses 168
A Good Time Coming ! 169
The Last Blossom 170
Contentment 170
Estivation 171
The Deacon's Masterpiece; or, The Wonderful "Oue-Hoss Shay" . . . .172
*/ Parson Turell's Legacy " ,1H-
" Ode for a Social Meeting, with slight Alterations by a Teetotaler . . . .176
POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE (1858-1859).
Under the Violets 177
Hymn of Trust . 177
A Sun-day Hymn 178
The Crooked Footpath . . . 178
Iris, her Book 179
Robinson of Leyden 180
St. Anthony the Reformer 181
The Opening of the Piano 181
Midsummer 182
DeSauty 182
POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE (1871 - 1872).
Homesick in Heaven 185
Fantasia 187
AuntTabitha 187
Wind-Clouds and Star-Drifts 188
Epilogue to the Breakfast-Table Series 205
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29(1851-1877).
Bill and Joe 207
A Song of " Twenty-nine " 208
Questions and Answers 209
An Impromptu 209
The Old Man Dreams .210
Remember Forget 210
Our Indian Summer 211
Mare Rubrum 212
The Boys 213
Lines 214
A Voice of the Loyal North 215
J. D. R 215
Voyage of the Good Ship Union 216
" Choose you this Day whom ye will Serve " 217
F. W. C 218
The Last Charge 219
Our Oldest Friend 220
Sherman 's in Savannah 221
My Annual 221
All Ik-re 222
Once More m 223
'I.I Cruiser 225
Hymn for the Class-Meeting ... 227
.Song t 227
CONTENTS. ix
PAGE
The Smiling Listener 229
Our Sweet Singer 231
H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W 232
What I have come for 233
Our Banker 233
For Class Meeting 235
" Ad Amicos " .236
How not to Settle it 237
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS (1862-1874).
Opening the Window 241
Programme 241
IN THE QUIET DAYS.
An Old-Year Song 243
Dorothy Q., a Family Portrait 243
The Organ-Blower 245
At the Pantomime 245
After the Fire 246
A Ballad of the Boston Tea-Party 247
Nearing the Snow-Line 248
IN WAR TIME.
To Canaan 250
" Thus saith the Lord, I offer Thee Three Things ". 251
Never or Now 251
One Country 252
God Save the Flag ! 252
Hymn after the Emancipation Proclamation 253
Hymn for the Fair at Chicago 253
SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL.
America to Kussia 255
Welcome to the Grand Duke Alexis 255
At the Banquet to the Grand Duke Alexis 256
At the Banquet to the Chinese Embassy 257
At the Banquet to the Japanese Embassy 258
Bryant's Seventieth Birthday 259
At a Dinner to General Grant 261
At a Dinner to Admiral Farragut 262
A Toast to Wilkie Collins 263
To H. W. Longfellow 263
To Christian Gottfried Ehrenberg 264
MEMORIAL VERSES.
For the Services in Memory of Abraham Lincoln 266
For the Commemoration Services 266
Edward Everett 268
'Shakespeare 270
In Memory of John and Robert Ware 271
Humboldt's Birthday 272
Poem at the Dedication of the Halleck Monument, July 8, 1869 274
Hymn for the Celebration at the Laying of the Corner-Stone of Harvard Memorial
Hall, Cambridge, October 6, 1870 274
Hyinn for the Dedication of Memorial Hnll, at Cambridge, June 23, 1874. . . .275
Hymn at the Funeral Services of Charles Sumner, April 29, 1874 . . . . 275
X CONTENTS.
RHYMES OF AN HOUR. PAGE
Address for the Opening of the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, December 3, 1873 277
Rip Van Winkle, M. D.; au After-Dinner Prescription taken by the Massachusetts
Medical Society, at their Meeting held August 25, 1870 280
Chanson without Music - 286
For the Centennial Dinner of the Proprietors of Boston Pier, or the Long Wharf,
April 16,1873 -. 287
A Poem served to Order 288
The Fountain of Youth 289
A Hymn of Peace, sung at the "Jubilee" June 15, 1869, to the Music of Keller's
" American Hymn " 290
ADDITIONAL POEMS (TO 1877).
At a Meeting of Friends, August 29, 1859 293
A Farewell to Agassiz 294
A Sea Dialogue 295
At the "Atlantic Dinner," December 15, 1874 296
"Lucy." For her Golden Wedding, October 18, 1875 298
Hymn for the Inauguration of the Statue of Governor Andrew, at Hingham, October
7, 1875 . ...... 298
A Memorial Tribute 299
Joseph Warren, M. D 300
Grandmother's Story of Bunker-Hill Battle 300
Old Cambridge, July 3, 1875 304
Welcome to the Nations, Philadelphia, July 4, 1876 306
A Familiar Letter 306
Unsatisfied 308
How the Old Horse won the Bet 309
An Appeal for "the Old South" 311
The First Fan 312
To R. B. H 314
"The Ship of State" 315
A Family Record 315
FIRST VERSES . . 320
NOTES 321
TO MY READERS.
NAY, blame me not ; I might have spared
Your patience many a trivial verse,
Yet these my earlier welcome shared,
So, let the better shield the worse.
And some might say, " Those ruder
songs
Had freshness which the new have
lost;
To spring the opening leaf belongs,
The chestnut-burs await the frost."
When those I wrote, my locks were
brown,
When these I write ah, well-a-day !
The autumn thistle's silvery down
Is not the purple bloom of May !
Go, little book, whose pages hold
Those garnered years in loving trust ;
How long before your blue and gold
Shall fade and whiten in the dust ?
sexton of the alcoved tomb,
Where souls in leathern cerements lie,
Tell me each living poet's doom !
How long before his book shall die ?
It matters little, soon or late,
A day, a month, a year, an age,
1 read oblivion in its date,
And Finis on its title-page.
Before we sighed, our griefs were told ;
Before we smiled, our joys were sung ;
And all our passions shaped of old
In accents lost to mortal tongue.
In vain a fresher mould we seek,
Can all the varied phrases tell
That Babel's wandering children speak
How thrushes sing or lilacs smell ?
Caged in the poet's lonely heart,
Love wastes unheard its tenderesttone ;
The soul that sings must dwell apart,
Its inward melodies unknown.
Deal gently with us, ye who read !
Our largest hope is unfulfilled,
The promise still outruns the deed,
The tower, but not the spire, we build.
Our whitest pearl we never find ;
Our ripest fruit we never reach ;
The flowering moments of the mind
Drop half their petals in our speech.
These are my blossoms ; if they wear
One streak of morn or evening's glow,
Accept them ; but to me more fair
The buds of song that never blow.
APRIL 8, 1862.
EARLIEK POEMS
1830-1836.
OLD IRONSIDES.
AY, tear her tattered ensign down !
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky ;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar ;
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more !
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee ;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea !
better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave ;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave ;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale !
THE LAST LEAF.
I SAW him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
EAKLIER POEMS.
And a crook is in his tack,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here ;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer !
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD.
OUR ancient church ! its lowly tower,
Beneath the loftier spire,
Is shadowed when the sunset hour
Clothes the tall shaft in fire ;
It sinks beyond the distant eye,
Long ere the glittering vane,
High wheeling in the western sky,
Has faded o'er the plain.
Like Sentinel and Nun, they keep
Their vigil on the green ;
One seems to guard, and one to weep,
The dead that lie between ;
And both roll out, so full and near,
Their music's mingling waves,
They shake the grass, whose pennoned
spear
Leans on the narrow graves.
The stranger parts the flaunting weeds,
Whose seeds the winds have strown
So thick beneath the line he reads,
They shade the sculptured stone ;
The child unveils his clustered brow,
And ponders for a while
The graven willow's pendent bough,
Or rudest cherub's smile.
But what to them the dirge, the knell ?
These "were the mourner's share ;
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell
Throbbed through the beating air ;
The rattling cord, the rolling stone,
The shelving sand that slid,
And, far beneath, with hollow tone,
Rung on the coffin's lid.
The slumberer's mound grows fresh and
green,
Then slowly disappears ;
The mosses creep, the gray stones lean,
Earth hides his date and years ;
But, long before the once-loved name
Is sunk or worn away,
No lip the silent dust may claim,
That pressed the breathing clay.
Go where the ancient pathway guides,
See where our sires laid down
Their smiling babes, their cherished
brides,
The patriarchs of the town ;
Hast thou a tear for buried love ?
A sigh for transient power ?
All that a century left above,
Go, read it in an hour !
The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball,
The sabre's thirsting edge,
The hot shell, shattering in its fall,
The bayonet's rending wedge,
Here scattered death ; yet, seek the spot,
No trace thine eye can see,
No altar, and they need it not
Who leave their children free !
Look where the turbid rain -drops stand
In many a chiselled square ;
The knightly crest, the shield, the brand
Of honored names were there ;
TO AN INSECT.
Alas ! for every tear is dried
Those blazoned tablets knew,
Save when the icy marble's side
Drips with the evening dew.
Or gaze upon yon pillared stone,
The empty urn of pride ;
There stand the Goblet and the Sun,
What need of more beside ?
Where lives the memory of the dead,
Who made their tomb a toy ?
Whose ashes press that nameless bed ?
Go, ask the village boy !
Lean o'er the slender western wall,
Ye ever-roaming girls ;
The breath that bids the blossom fall
May lift your floating curls,
To sweep the simple lines that tell
An exile's date and doom ;
And sigh, for where his daughters dwell,
They wreathe the stranger's tomb.
And one amid these shades was born,
Beneath this turf who lies,
Once beaming as the summer's morn,
That closed her gentle eyes ;
If sinless angels love as we,
Who stood thy grave beside,
Three seraph welcomes waited thee,
The daughter, sister, bride !
I wandered to thy buried mound
When earth was hid below
The level of the glaring ground,
Choked to its gates with snow,
And when with summer's flowery waves
The lake of verdure rolled,
As if a Sultan's white-robed slaves
Had scattered pearls and gold.
Nay, the soft pinions of the air,
That lift this trembling tone,
Its breath of love may almost bear,
To kiss thy funeral stone ;
And, now thy smiles have passed away,
For all the joy they gave,
May sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave !
When damps beneath, and storms above,
Have bowed these fragile towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove
Shall swing its Orient flowers ;
And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If e'er this humble line,
Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust,
Might call a tear on mine.
TO AN INSECT.
I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,
Wherever thou art hid,
Thou testy little dogmatist,
Thou pretty Katydid !
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,
Old gentlefolks are they,
Thou say'st an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.
Thou art a female, Katydid !
I know it by the trill
That quivers through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill ;
I think there is a knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,
A knot of spinster Katydids,
Do Katydids drink tea ?
tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do ?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too ?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one ?
1 warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.
Dear me ! I '11 tell you all about
My fuss with little Jane,
EARLIER POEMS.
And Ann, with whom I used to walk
So often down the lane,
And all that tore their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do ?
Ah no ! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,
The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid
Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid
Whose name she knows so well.
Peace to the ever-murmuring race !
And when the latest one
Shall fold in death her feeble wings
Beneath the autumn sun,
Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,
And then the child of future years
Shall hear what Katy did.
THE DILEMMA.
Now, by the blessed Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen ;
By every name I cut on bark
Before my morning star grew dark
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,
By all that thrills the beating heart ;
The bright black eye, the melting blue,
I cannot choose between the two.
I had a vision in my dreams ;
I saw a row of twenty beams ;
From every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung ;
I asked the hue of every eye,
That bade each luckless lover die ;
Ten shadowy lips said, heavenly blue,
And ten accused the darker hue.
I asked a matron which she deemed
With fairest light of beauty beamed ;
She answered, some thought both were
fair,
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in, their eyes were blue.
I asked a maiden ; back she flung
The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turned her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until beneath its rays
I felt as if my hair would blaze ;
She liked all eyes but eyes of green ;
She looked at me ; what could she mean ?
Ah ! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the coloring of his screen ;
And when his random arrows fly,
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set ;
Look not beneath his azure veil,
Though every limb were cased in mail.
Well, both might make a martyr break
The chain that bound him to the stake;
And both, with but a single ray,
Can melt our very hearts away ;
And both, when balanced, hardly seem
To stir the scales, or rock the beam ;
But that is dearest, all the while,
That wears for us the sweetest smile.
MY AUNT.
MY aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt !
Long years have o'er her flown ;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone ;
[ know it hurts her, though she looks
As cheerful as she can ;
KEFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN.
Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.
My aunt ! my poor deluded aunt !
Her hair is almost gray ;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way ?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When, through a double convex lens,
She just makes out to spell ?
Her father grandpapa ! forgive
This erring lip its smiles
Vowed she should make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles ;
He sent her to a stylish school ;
'T was in her thirteenth June ;
And with her, as the rules required,
"Two towels and a spoon."
They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall ;
They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small ;
They pinched her feet, they singed her
hair,
They screwed it up with pins ;
never mortal suffered more
In penance for her sins.
So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back ;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track ;)
"Ah ! " said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
"What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man ! "
Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade,
Tore from the trembling father's arms
His all-accomplished maid.
For her how happy had it been !
And Heaven had spared to me
To see one sad, uiigathered rose
On my ancestral tree.
REFLECTIONS OF A PPOUD PEDES-
TRIAN.
I SAW the curl of his waving lash,
And the glance of his knowing eye,
And I knew that he thought he was
cutting a dash,
As his steed went thundering by.
And he may ride in the rattling gig,
Or flourish the Stanhope gay,
And dream that he looks exceeding big
To the people that walk in the way ;
But he shall think, when the night is
still,
On the stable-boy's gathering num-
bers,
And the ghost of many a veteran bill
Shall hover around his slumbers ;
The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep,
And constables cluster around him,
And he shall creep from the wood-hole
deep
Where their spectre eyes have found
him !
Ay ! gather your reins, and crack your
thong,
And bid your steed go faster ;
He does not know, as he scrambles
along,
That he has a fool for his master ;
And hurry away on your lonely ride,
Nor deign from the mire to save me ;
I will paddle it stoutly at your side
With the tandem that nature gave
nie!
EARLIER POEMS.
DAILY TRIALS.
BY A SENSITIVE MAN.
0, THERE are times
When all this fret and tumult that we
hear
Do seem more stale than to the sexton's
ear
His own dull chimes.
Ding dong ! ding dong !
The world is in a simmer like a sea
Over a pent volcano, woe is me
All the day long !
From crib to shroud !
Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby,
And friends in boots tramp round us as
we die,
Snuffling aloud.
At morning's call
The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in
the sun,
And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by
one,
Give answer all.
When evening dim
Draws round us, then the lonely cater-
waul,
Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall,
These are our hymn.
Women, with tongues
Like polar needles, ever on the jar ;
Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep
fountains are
Within their lungs.
Children, with drums
Strapped round them by the fond pater-
nal ass ;
Peripatetics with a blade of grass
Between their thumbs.
Vagrants, whose arts
Have caged some devil in their mad ma-
chine,
Which grinding, squeaks, with husky
groans between,
Come out by starts.
Cockneys that kill
Thin horses of a Sunday, men, with
clams,
Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their
dams
From hill to hill.
Soldiers, with guns,
Making a nuisance of the blessed air,
Child-crying bellmen, children in de-
spair,
Screeching for buns.
Storms, thunders, waves !
Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your
fill;
Ye sometimes rest ; men never can be still
But in their graves.
EVENING.
BY A TAILOR.
DAY hath put on his jacket, and around
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars.
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,
That is like padding to earth's meagre
ribs,
And hold communion with the things
about me.
Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid
That binds the skirt of night's descend-
ing robe !
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken
threads,
Do make a music liko to rustling satin,
As the light breezes smooth their downy
nap.
THE DORCHESTER GIANT.
Ha ! what is this that rises to my touch,
So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage ?
It is, it is that deeply injured flower,
Which boys do flout us with ; but yet
I love thee,
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green sur-
tout.
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as
bright
As these, thy puny brethren ; and thy
breath
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt
beau,
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences,
And growing portly in his sober garments.
Is that a swan that rides upon the
water ?
no, it is that other gentle bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
1 well remember, in my early years,
When these young hands first closed
upon a goose ;
I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of young am-
bition.
My father was a tailor, and his father,
And my sire's grandsire, all of them
were tailors ;
They had an ancient goose, it was an
heirloom
From some remoter tailor of our race.
It happened I did see it on a time
When none was near, and I did deal
with it,
And it did burn me, 0, most fearfully !
It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,
And leap elastic from the level counter,
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread, the din of clashing
shears,
And all the needles that do wound the
spirit,
For such a pensive hour of soothing si-
lence.
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose un-
dress,
Lays bare her shady bosom ; I can feel
With all around me ; I can hail the
flowers
That sprig earth's mantle, and yon
quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a
brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden
pockets,
Where Nature stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in their wonted
fashion.
THE DORCHESTER GIANT.
THERE was a giant in time of old,
A mighty one was he ;
He had a wife, but she was a scold,
So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold;
And he had children three.
It happened to be an election day,
And the giants were choosing a king ;
The people were not democrats then,
They did not talk of the rights of men,
And all that sort of thing.
Then the giant took his children three,
And fastened them in the pen ;
The children roared ; quoth the giant,
"Be still !"
And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill
Rolled back the sound again.
Then he brought them a pudding stuffed
with plums,
As big as the State-House dome ;
Quoth he, " There 's something for you
to eat ;
EARLIER POEMS.
So stop your mouths with your 'lection
treat,
And wait till your dad comes home."
So the giant pulled him a chestnut stout,
And whittled the boughs away ;
The boys and their mother set up a shout,
Said he, " You 're in, and you can't get
out,
Bellow as loud as you may."
Off he went, and he growled a tune
As he strode the fields along ;
'T is said a buffalo fainted away,
And fell as cold as a lump of clay,
When he heard the giant's song.
But whether the story 's true or not,
It is n't for me to show ;
There 's many a thing that 's twice as
queer
In somebody's lectures that we hear,
And those are true, you know.
* * *
What are those lone ones doing now,
The wife and the children sad ?
0, they are in a terrible rout,
Screaming, and throwing their pudding
about,
Acting as they were mad.
They flung it over to Roxbury hills,
They flung it over the plain,
And all over Milton and Dorchester too
Great lumps of pudding the giants threw;
They tumbled as thick as rain.
* # *
Giant and mammoth have passed away,
For ages have floated by ;
The suet is hard as a marrow-bone,
And every plum is turned to a stone,
But there the puddings lie.
And if, some pleasant afternoon,
You '11 ask me out to ride,
The whole of the story I will tell,
And you shall see where the puddings fell,
And pay for the punch beside.
TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY."
IN THE ATHEN^UM GALLERY.
WELL, Miss, I wonder where you live,
I wonder what 's your name,
I wonder how you came to be
In such a stylish frame ;
Perhaps you were a favorite child,
Perhaps an only one ;
Perhaps your friends were not aware
You had your portrait done !
Yet you must be a harmless soul ;
I cannot think that Sin
Would care to throw his loaded dice,
With such a stake to win ;
I cannot think you would provoke
The poet's wicked pen,
Or make young women bite their lips,
Or ruin fine young men.
Pray, did you ever hear, my love,
Of boys that go about,
Who, for a very trifling sum,
Will snip one's picture out?
I 'm not averse to red and white,
But all things have their place,
I think a profile cut in black
Would suit your style of face !
I love sweet features ; I will own
That I should like myself
To see my portrait on a wall,
Or bust upon a shelf ;
But nature sometimes makes one up
Of such sad odds and ends,
It really might be quite as well
Hushed up among one's friends !
THE COMET. THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.
THE COMET.
THE Comet ! He is on his way,
And singing as he flies ;
The whizzing planets shrink before
The spectre of the skies ;
Ah ! well may regal orbs burn blue,
And satellites turn pale,
Ten million cubic miles of head,
Ten billion leagues of tail !
On, on by whistling spheres of light
He flashes and he flames ;
He turns not to the left nor right,
He asks them not their names ;
One spurn from his demoniac heel,
Away, away they fly,
Where darkness might be bottled up
And sold for "Tyrian dye."
And what would happen to the land,
And how would look the sea,
If in the bearded devil's path
Our earth should chance to be ?
Full hot and high the sea would boil,
Full red the forests gleam ;
Methought I saw and heard it all
In a dyspeptic dream !
I saw a tutor take his tube
The Comet's course to spy ;
I heard a scream, the gathered rays
Had stewed the tutor's eye ;
I saw a fort, the soldiers all
Were armed with goggles green ;
Pop era eked the guns ' whiz flew the balls !
Bang went the magazine !
I saw a poet dip a scroll
Each moment in a tub,
I read upon the warping back,
" The Dream of Beelzebub" ;
He could not see his verses burn,
Although his brain was fried,
And ever and anon he bent
To wet them as they dried.
I saw the scalding pitch roll down
The crackling, sweating pines,
And streams of smoke, like water-spouts,
Burst through the rumbling mines ;
I asked the firemen why they made
Such noise about the town ;
They answered not, but all the while
The brakes went up and down.
I saw a roasting pullet sit
Upon a baking egg ;
I saw a cripple scorch his hand
Extinguishing his leg ;
I saw nine geese upon the wing
Towards the frozen pole,
And every mother's gosling fell
Crisped to a crackling coal.
I saw the ox that browsed the grass
Writhe in the blistering rays,
The herbage in his shrinking jaws
Was all a fiery blaze ;
I saw huge fishes, boiled to rags,
Bob through the bubbling brine ;
And thoughts of supper crossed my soul;
I had been rash at mine.
Strange sights ! strange sounds ! fear-
ful dream !
Its memory haunts me still,
The steaming sea, the crimson glare,
That wreathed each wooded hill ;
Stranger ! if through thy reeling brain
Such midnight visions sweep,
Spare, spare, 0, spare thine evening meal,
And sweet shall be thy sleep !
THE MUSIC GRINDERS.
THERE are three ways in which men take
One's money from his purse,
And very hard it is to tell
Which of the three is worse ;
But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.
10
EARLIER POEMS.
You 're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains ;
A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.
It 's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot ;
It 's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot ;
And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.
Perhaps you 're going out to dine,
Some odious creature begs
You '11 hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.
He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
Poor little, lovely innocents,
All clamorous for bread,
And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.
You 're sitting on your window-seat,
Beneath a cloudless moon ;
You hear a sound, that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,
As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.
And nearer, nearer still, tlie tide
Of music seems to come,
There 's something like a human voice,
And something like a drum ;
You sit in speechless agony,
Until your ear is numb.
Poor "home, sweet home" should seem
to be
A very dismal place ;
Your " auld acquaintance" all at once
Is altered in the face ;
Their discords sting through Burns and
Moore,
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.
You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,
And break the legs of Time.
But hark ! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound ;
It cannot be, it is, it is,
A hat is going round !
No ! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,
And pay the owner of the bear
That stunned you with his paw,
And buy the lobster that has had
Your knuckles in his claw ;
But if you are a portly man,
Put on your fiercest frown,
And talk about a constable
To turn them out of town ;
Then close your sentence with an oath,
And shut the window down !
And if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,
Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat !
THE TREADMILL SONG.
THE stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
THE SEPTEMBER GALE.
11
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly ;
"Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky ?
Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs !
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs ;
What though you 're awkward at the
trade,
There 's time enough to learn,
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.
They 've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out ;
We 've nothing in the world to do
But just to walk about ;
So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends,
It 's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.
Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha' n't be lazy here,
And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear,
He 's lost them both, don't pull his
hair,
Because he wears a scratch,
But poke him in the further eye,
That is n't in the patch.
Hark ! fellows, there 's the supper-bell,
And so our \vork is done ;
It 's pretty sport, suppose we take
A round or two for fun !
If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own !
THE SEPTEMBER GALE.
I 'M not a chicken ; I have soon
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember ;
The day before, my kite -string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf
hat ;
For me two storms were brewing !
It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing ;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.
Lord ! how the ponds and livers boiled !
They seemed like bursting craters !
And oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were p'taters ;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying ;
The storm came roaring through the
lines,
And set them all a flying ;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches ;
I lost, ah ! bitterly I wept,
I lost my Sunday breeches !
I saw them straddling through the
air,
Alas ! too late to win them ;
I saw them chase the clouds, as if
The devil had been in them ;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches,
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,
" My breeches ! my breeches ! "
12
EARLIER POEMS.
That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them !
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had whistled through them !
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them ;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever !
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches !
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.
I WROTE some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as 1 would die ;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came ;
How kind it was of him
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb !
" These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added, (as a trifling jest,)
" There '11 be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within ;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.
He read the next ; the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear ;
He read the third ; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.
The fourth ; he broke into a roar ;
The fifth ; his waistband split ;
The sixth ; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
THE LAST READER.
I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,
And read my own sweet songs ;
Though naught they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs
A tone that might have passed away,
But for that scarce remembered lay.
I keep them like a lock or leaf
That some dear girl has given ;
Frail record of an hour, as brief
As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadowed hill.
They lie upon my pathway bleak,
Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's careworn cheek
The ringlets of his child ;
The golden mingling with the gray,
And stealing half its snows away.
What care I though the dust is spread
Around these yellow leaves,
Or o'er them his sarcastic thread
Oblivion's insect weaves,
Though weeds are tangled on the stream,
It still reflects my morning's beam.
And therefore love I such as smile
On these neglected songs
POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY.
13
Nor deem that flattery's needless wile
My opening bosom wrongs ;
For who would trample, at my side,
A few pale bnds, my garden's pride ?
It may be that my scanty ore
Long years have washed away,
And where were golden sands before,
Is naught but common clay ;
Still something sparkles in the sun
For memory to look back upon.
And when my name no more is heard,
My lyre no more is known,
Still let me, like a winter's bird,
In silence and alone,
Fold over them the weary wing
Once flashing through the dews of spring.
Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap
My youth in its decline,
And riot in the rosy lap
Of thoughts that once were mine,
And give the worm my little store
When the last reader reads no more !
POETRY :
A METRICAL ESSAY, READ BEFORE THE
* B K SOCIETY, HARVARD UNIVER-
SITY, AUGUST, 1836.
TO CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, THE FOLLOW-
ING METRICAL ESSAY IS AFFECTION-
ATELY INSCRIBED.
SCENES of my youth ! awake its slum-
bering fire !
Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent
lyre !
Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear,
Break through the clouds of Fancy's
waning year ;
Chase from her breast the thin autumnal
snow,
If leaf or blossom still is fresh below !
Long have I wandered ; the returning
tide
Brought back an exile to his cradle's side ;
And as my bark her time-worn flag un-
rolled,
To greet the land-breeze with its faded
fold,
So, in remembrance of my boyhood's
time,
I lift these ensigns of neglected rhyme ;
more than blest, that, all my wander-
ings through,
My anchor falls where first my pennons
flew !
The morning light, which rains its
quivering beams
Wide o'er the plains, the summits, and
the streams,
In one broad blaze expands its golden
glow
On all that answers to its glance below ;
Yet, changed on earth, each far re-
flected ray
Braids with fresh hues the shining brow
of day ;
Now, clothed in blushes by the painted
flowers,
Tracks on their cheeks the rosy-fingered
hours ;
Now, lost in shades, whose dark en-
tangled leaves
Drip at the noontide from their pendent
eaves,
Fades into gloom, or gleams in light again
From every dew-drop on the jewelled
plain.
We, like the leaf, the summit, or the
wave,
Reflect the light our common nature gave,
But every sunbeam, falling from her
throne,
Wears on our hearts some coloring of our
own ;
Chilled in the slave, and burning in the
free,
14
EARLIER POEMS.
Like the sealed cavern by the sparkling
sea ;
Lost, like the lightning in the sullen
clod,
Or shedding radiance, like the smiles of
God,
Pure, pale in Virtue, as the star above,
Or quivering roseate on the leaves of
Love ;
Glaring like noontide, where it glows
upon
Ambition's sands, the desert in the
sun ;
Or soft suffusing o'er the varied scene
Life's common coloring, intellectual
green.
Thus Heaven, repeating its material
plan,
Arched over all the rainbow mind of man;
But he who, blind to universal laws,
Sees but effects, unconscious of their
cause,
Believes each image in itself is bright,
Not robed in drapery of reflected light,
Is like the rustic who, amidst his toil,
Has found some crystal in his meagre
soil,
And, lost in rapture, thinks for him alone
Earth worked her wonders on the spark-
ling stone,
Nor dreams that Nature, with as nice a
line,
Carved countless angles through the
boundless mine.
Thus err the many, who, entranced
to find
Unwonted lustre in some clearer mind,
Believe that Genius sets the laws at
naught
"Which chain the pinions of our wildest
thought ;
Untaught to measure, with the eye of
art,
The wandering fancy or the wayward
heart ;
Who match the little only with the less,
And gaze in rapture at its slight excess,
Proud of a pebble, as the brightest gem
Whose light might crown an emperor's
diadem.
And, most of all, the pure ethereal
fire,
Which seems to radiate from the poet's
lyre,
Is to the world a mystery and a charm,
An ^Egis wielded on a mortal's arm,
While Reason turns her dazzled eye
away,
And bows her sceptre to her subject's
sway;
And thus the poet, clothed with godlike
state,
Usurped his Maker's title to create ;
He, whose thoughts differing not in
shape, but dress,
What others feel, more fitly can express,
Sits like the maniac on his fancied
throne,
Peeps through the bars, and calls the
world his own.
There breathes no being but has some
pretence
To that fine instinct called poetic sense :
The rudest savage roaming through the
wild ;
The simplest rustic bending o'er his
child ;
The infant listening to the warbling bird ;
The mother smiling at its half-formed
word ;
The boy uncaged, who tracks the fields
at large ;
The girl, turned matron to her babe-like
charge ;
The freeman, casting with unpurchased
hand
POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY.
15
The vote that shakes the turrets of the
land ;
The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted
chain,
Dreams of the palm-trees on his burning
plain ;
The hot-cheeked reveller, tossing down
the wine,
To join the chorus pealing " Auld lang
syne " ;
The gentle maid, whose azure eye grows
dim,
"While Heaven is listening to her evening
hymn ;
The jewelled beauty, when her steps
draw near
The circling dance and dazzling chande-
lier ;
E'en trembling age, when Spring's re-
newing air
Waves the thin ringlets of his silvered
hair ;
All, all are glowing with the inward
flame,
"Whose wider halo wreathes the poet's
name,
"While, unembalmed, the silent dreamer
dies,
His memory passing with his smiles and
sighs !
If glorious visions, born for all man-
kind,
The bright auroras of our twilight mind ;
If fancies, varying as the shapes that
lie
Stained on the windows of the sunset
sky;
If hopes, that beckon with delusive
gleams,
Till the eye dances in the void of dreams ;
If passions, following with the winds
that urge
Earth's wildest wanderer to her farthest
verge ;
If these on all some transient hours
bestow
Of rapture tingling with its hectic glow,
Then all are poets ; and, if earth had
rolled
Her myriad centuries, and her doom
were told,
Each moaning billow of her shoreless
wave
Would wail its requiem o'er a poet's
grave !
If to embody in a breathing word
Tones that the spirit trembled when it
heard ;
To fix the image all unveiled and warm,
And carve in language its ethereal form,
So pure, so perfect, that the lines express
No meagre shrinking, no unlaced excess ;
To feel that art, in living truth, has
taught
Ourselves, reflected in the sculptured
thought ;
If this alone bestow the right to claim
The deathless garland and the sacred
name ;
Then none are poets, save the saints on
high,
Whose harps can murmur all that words
deny !
But though to none is granted to
reveal,
In perfect semblance, all that each may
feel,
As withered flowers recall forgotten love,
So, warmed to life, our faded passions
move
In every line, where kindling fancy
throws
The gleam of pleasures, or the shade of
When, schooled by time, the stately
queen of art
16
EAELIER POEMS.
Had smoothed the pathways leading to
the heart,
Assumed her measured tread, her solemn
tone,
And round her courts the clouds of fable
thrown,
The wreaths of heaven descended on
her shrine,
And wondering earth proclaimed the
Muse divine.
Yet, if her votaries had but dared pro-
fane
The mystic symbols of her sacred reign,
How had they smiled beneath the veil
to find
What slender threads can chain the
mighty mind !
Poets, like painters, their machinery
claim,
And verse bestows the varnish and the
frame ;
Our grating English, whose Teutonic jar
Shakes the racked axle of Art's rattling
car,
Fits like mosaic in the lines that gird
Fast in its place each many-angled word ;
From Saxon lips Anacreon's numbers
glide,
As once they melted on the Teian tide,
And, fresh transfused, the Iliad thrills
again
From Albion's cliffs as o'er Achaia's
plain !
The proud heroic, with its pulse-like
beat,
Kings like the cymbals clashing as they
meet ;
The sweet Spenserian, gathering as it
flows,
Sweeps gently onward to its dying close,
Where waves on waves in long succes-
sion pour,
Till the ninth billow melts along the
shore ;
The lonely spirit of the mournful lay,
Which lives immortal as the verse of
Gray,
In sable plumage slowly drifts along,
On eagle pinion, through the air of
song;
The glittering lyric bounds elastic by,
With flashing ringlets and exulting eye,
While every image, in her airy whirl,
Gleams like a diamond on a dancing
girl !
Born with mankind, with man's ex-
panded range
And varying fates the poet's numbers
change ;
Thus in his history may we hope to find
Some clearer epochs of the poet's mind,
As from the cradle of its birth we trace,
Slow wandering forth, the patriarchal
race.
I.
WHEN the green earth, beneath the
zephyr's wing,
Wears on her breast the varnished buds
of Spring ;
When the loosed current, as its folds
uncoil,
Slides in the channels of the mellowed
soil ;
When the young hyacinth returns to
seek
The air and sunshine with her emerald
beak ;
When the light snowdrops, starting from
their cells,
Hang each pagoda with its silver bells ;
When the frail willow twines her trail-
ing bow
With pallid leaves that sweep the soil
below ;
When the broad elm, sole empress of
the plain,
POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY.
17
Whose circling shadow speaks a cen-
tury's reign,
Wreathes in the clouds her regal dia-
dem,
A forest waving on a single stem ;
Then mark the poet ; though to him
unknown
The quaint-mouthed titles, such as
scholars own,
See how his eye in ecstasy pursues
The steps of Nature tracked in radiant
hues ;
Nay, in thyself, whate'er may be thy
fate,
Pallid with toil, or surfeited with state,
Mark how thy fancies, with the vernal
rose,
Awake, all sweetness, from their long
repose ;
Then turn to ponder o'er the classic
page,
Traced with the idyls of a greener
age,
And learn the instinct which arose to
warm
Art's earliest essay, and her simplest
form.
To themes like these her narrow path
confined
The first-born impulse moving in the
mind ;
In vales unshaken by the trumpet's
sound,
Where peaceful Labor tills his fertile
ground,
The silent changes of the rolling years,
Marked on the soil, or dialled on the
spheres,
The crested forests and the colored
flowers,
The dewy grottos and the blushing
bow-ers,
These, and their guardians, who, with
liquid names,
Strephons and Chloes, melt in mutual
flames,
Woo the young Muses from their moun-
tain shade,
To make Arcadias in the lonely glade.
Nor think they visit only with their
smiles
The fabled valleys and Elysian isles ;
He who is wearied of his village plain
May roam the Edens of the world in
vain.
'T is not the star-crowned cliff, the
cataract's flow,
The softer foliage, or the greener glow,
The lake of sapphire, or the spar-hung
cave,
The brighter sunset, or the broader wave,
Can warm his heart whom every wind
has blown
To every shore, forgetful of his own.
Home of our childhood ! how affection
clings
And hovers round thee with her seraph
wings !
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn
brown,
Than fairest summits which the cedars
crown !
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer
breeze
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas !
The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's
sigh,
For the heart's temple is its own blue
sky!
happiest they, whose early love
unchanged,
Hopes undissolved, and friendship un-
estranged,
Tired of their wanderings, still can
dt-ign to see
Love, hopes, and friendship, centring
all in thee !
18
EARLIER POEMS.
And thou, my village ! as again I
tread
Amidst thy living, and above thy dead ;
Though some fair playmates guard with
chaster fears
Their cheeks, grown holy with the lapse
of years ;
Though with the dust some reverend
locks may blend,
"Where life's last mile-stone marks the
journey's end ;
On every bud the changing year recalls,
The brightening glance of morning mem-
ory falls,
Still following onward as the months
unclose
The balmy lilac or the bridal rose ;
And still shall follow, till they sink once
more
Beneath the snow-drifts of the frozen
shore,
As when my bark, long tossing in the
gale,
Furled in her port her tempest-rended
sail !
What shall I give thee ? Can a sim-
ple lay,
Flung on thy bosom like a girl's bouquet,
Do more than deck thee for an idle
hour,
Then fall unheeded, fading like the
flower ?
Yet, when I trod, with footsteps wild
and free,
The crackling leaves beneath yon linden-
tree,
Panting from play, or dripping from the
stream,
How bright the visions of my boyish
dream !
Or, modest Charles, along thy broken
edge,
Black with soft ooze and fringed with
arrowy sedge,
As once I wandered in the morning sun,
With reeking sandal and superfluous
gun;
How oft, as Fancy whispered in the gale,
Thou wast the Avon of her nattering
tale!
Ye hills, whose foliage, fretted on the
skies,
Prints shadowy arches on their evening
dyes,
How should my song with holiest charm
invest
Each dark ravine and forest-lifting crest !
How clothe in beauty each familiar scene,
Till all was classic on my native green !
As the drained fountain, filled with
autumn leaves,
The field swept naked of its garnered
sheaves ;
So wastes at noon the promise of our
dawn,
The springs all choking, and the harvest
gone.
Yet hear the lay of one whose natal star
Still seemed the brightest when it shone
afar;
Whose cheek, grown pallid with ungra-
cious toil,
Glows in the welcome of his parent soil ;
And ask no garlands sought beyond the
tide,
But take the leaflets gathered at your
side. 1
II.
BUT times were changed ; the torch
of terror came,
To light the summits with the beacon's
flame ;
The streams ran crimson, the tall moun-
tain pines
Rose a new forest o'er embattled lines ;
1 For " The Cambridge Churchyard," see p. 2.
POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY.
19
The bloodless sickle lent the warrior's
steel,
The harvest bowed beneath his chariot
wheel ;
"Where late the w r ood-dove sheltered her
repose
The raven waited for the conflict's close ;
The cuirassed sentry walked his sleep-
less round
Where Daphne smiled or Amaryllis
frowned ;
Where timid minstrels sung their blush-
ing charms,
Some wild Tyrtseus called aloud, "To
When Glory wakes, when fiery spirits
leap,
Roused by her accents from their tran-
quil sleep,
The ray that flashes from the soldier's
crest
Lights, as it glances, in the poet's
breast ;
Xot in pale dreamers, whose fantastic
lay
Toys with smooth trifles like a child at
play,
But men, who act the passions they in-
spire,
Who wave the sabre as they sweep the
lyre!
Ye mild enthusiasts, whose pacific
frowns
Are lost like dew-drops caught in burn-
ing towns,
Pluck as ye will the radiant plumes of
fame,
Break Csesar's bust to make yourselves
a name ;
But, if your country bares the avenger's
blade
For wrongs unpunished, or for debts
unpaid,
When the roused nation bids her armies
form,
And screams her eagle through the gath-
ering storm,
When from your ports the bannered
frigate rides,
Her black bows scowling to the crested
tides,
Your hour has past ; in vain your feeble
cry,
As the babe's wailings to the thundering
sky !
Scourge of mankind ! with all the
dread array
That wraps in wrath thy desolating way,
As the wild tempest wakes the slumber-
ing sea,
Thou only teachest all that man can
be.
Alike thy tocsin has the power to charm
The toil-knit sinews of the rustic's arm,
Or swell the pulses in the poet's veins,
And bid the nations tremble at his
strains.
The city slept beneath the moonbeam's
glance,
Her white w r alls gleaming through the
vines of France,
And all was hushed, save where the
footsteps fell,
On some high tower, of midnight senti-
nel.
But one still watched ; no self-encircled
woes
Chased from his lids the angel of repose ;
He watched, he wept, for thoughts of
bitter years
Bowed his dark lashes, wet with burning
tears :
His country's sufferings and her chil-
dren's shame
Streamed o'er his memory like a forest's
flame,
20
EARLIER POEMS.
Each treasured insult, each remembered
wrong,
Rolled through his heart and kindled
into song :
His taper faded ; and the morning gales
Swept through the world the war-song
of Marseilles !
Now, while around the smiles of Peace
expand,
And Plenty's wreaths festoon the laugh-
ing land ;
While France ships outward her reluc-
tant ore,
And half our navy basks upon the shore ;
From ruder themes our meek-eyed Muses
turn
To crown with roses their enamelled urn.
If e'er again return those awful days
"Whose clouds were crimsoned with the
beacon's blaze,
Whose grass was trampled by the sol-
dier's heel,
Whose tides were reddened round the
rushing keel,
God grant some lyre may wake a nobler
strain
To rend the silence of our tented plain !
When Gallia's flag its triple fold dis-
plays,
Her marshalled legions peal the Mar-
seillaise ;
When round the German close the war-
clouds dim,
Far through their shadows floats his
battle-hymn ;
When, crowned with joy, the camps of
England ring,
A thousand voices shout, " God save the
King!"
When victory follows with our eagle's
glance,
Our nation's anthem pipes a country
dance !
Some prouder Muse, when comes the
hour at last,
May shake our hillsides with her bugle-
blast ;
Not ours the task ; but since the lyric
dress
Relieves the statelier with its sprightli-
ness,
Hear an old song, which some, per-
chance, have seen
In stale gazette, or cobwebbed magazine.
There was an hour when patriots dared
profane
The mast that Britain strove to bow in
vain ;
And one, who listened to the tale of
shame,
Whose heart still answered to that
sacred name,
Whose eye still followed o'er his coun-
try's tides
Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Iron-
sides !
From yon lone attic, on a summer's morn,
Thus mocked the spoilers with his
school- boy scorn. 1
III.
WHEN florid Peace resumed her golden
reign,
And arts revived, and valleys bloomed
again ;
While War still panted on his broken
blade,
Once more the Muse her heavenly wing
essayed.
Rude was the song ; some ballad, stern
and wild,
Lulled the light slumbers of the soldier's
child ;
Or young romancer, with his threatening
glance
1 For "Old Ironsides," see p. 1.
POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY.
21
And fearful fables of his bloodless lance,
Scared the soft fancy of the clinging girls,
Whose snowy fingers smoothed his raven
curls.
But when long years the stately form
had bent,
And faithless memory her illusions lent,
So vast the outlines of Tradition grew,
That History wondered at the shapes
she drew,
And veiled at length their too ambitious
hues
Beneath the pinions of the Epic Muse.
Far swept her wing ; for stormier days
had brought
With darker passions deeper tides of
thought.
The camp's harsh tumult and the con-
flict's glow,
The thrill of triumph and the gasp of woe,
The tender parting and the glad return,
The festal banquet and the funeral urn,
And all the drama which at once uprears
Its spectral shadows through the clash
of spears,
From camp and field to echoing verse
transferred,
Swelled the proud song that listening
nations heard.
Why floats the amaranth in eternal
bloom
O'er Ilium's turrets and Achilles' tomb ?
Why lingers fancy, where the sunbeams
smile
On Circe's gardens and Calypso's isle ?
Why follows memory to the gate of
Troy
Her plumed defender and his trembling
boy?
Lo ! the blind dreamer, kneeling on the
sand,
To trace these records with his doubtful
hand ;
In fabled tones his own emotion flows,
And other lips repeat his silent woes ;
In Hector's infant see the babes that
shun
Those deathlike eyes, unconscious of the
sun,
Or in his hero hear himself implore,
''Give me to see, and Ajax asks no
Thus live undying through the lapse
of time
The solemn legends of the warrior's
clime ;
Like Egypt's pyramid, or PaBstum's fane,
They stand the heralds of the voiceless
plain ;
Yet not like them, for Time, by slow
degrees,
Saps the gray stone, and wears the em-
broidered frieze,
And Isis sleeps beneath her subject
Kile,
And crumbled Neptune strews his
Dorian pile ;
But Art's fair fabric, strengthening as
it rears
Its laurelled columns through the mist
of years,
As the blue arches of the bending skies
Still gird the torrent, following as it
flies,
Spreads, with the surges bearing on
mankind,
Its starred pavilion o'er the tides of
mind !
In vain the patriot asks some lofty lay
To dress in state our wars of yesterday.
The classic days, those mothers of ro-
mance,
That roused a nation for a woman's
glance ;
The age of mystery with its hoarded
power,
22
EARLIER POEMS.
That girt the tyrant in his storied tower,
Have past and faded like a dream of
youth,
And riper eras ask for history's truth.
On other shores, above their moulder-
ing towns,
In sullen pomp the tall cathedral frowns,
Pride in its aisles, and paupers at the
door,
Which feeds the beggars whom it fleeced
of yore.
Simple and frail, our lowly temples
throw
Their slender shadows on the paths
below ;
Scarce steal the winds, that sweep his
woodland tracks,
The larch's perfume from the settler's
axe,
Ere, like a vision of the morning air,
His slight-framed steeple marks the
.house of prayer ;
Its planks all reeking, and its paint
undried,
Its rafters sprouting on the shady side,
It sheds the raindrops from its shingled
eaves,
Ere its green brothers once have changed
their leaves.
Yet Faith's pure hymn, beneath its
shelter rude,
Breathes out as sweetly to the tangled
wood,
As where the rays through pictured glo-
ries pour
On marble shaft and tessellated floor ;
Heaven asks no surplice round the heart
that feels,
And all is holy where devotion kneels.
Thus on the soil the patriot's knee
should bend,
"Which holds the dust once living to
defend ;
Where'er the hireling shrinks before
the free,
Each pass becomes ' ' a new Thermopy-
lae" !
Where'er the battles of the brave are
won,
There every mountain "looks on Mara-
thon " !
Our fathers live ; they guard in glory
still
The grass-grown bastions of the for-
tressed hill ;
Still ring the echoes of the trampled gorge,
With God and Freedom! England and
Saint George I
The royal cipher on the captured gun
Mocks the sharp night-dews and the
blistering sun ;
The red-cross banner shades its captor's
bust,
Its folds still loaded with the conflict's
dust ;
The drum, suspended by its tattered
marge,
Once rolled and rattled to the Hessian's
charge ;
The stars have floated from Britannia's
mast,
The redcoat's trumpets blown the rebel's
blast.
Point to the summits where the brave
have bled,
Where every village claims its glorious
dead ;
Say, when their bosoms met the bay-
onet's shock,
Their only corselet was the rustic frock ;
Say, when they mustered to the gather-
ing horn,
The titled chieftain curled his lip in
scorn,
Yet, when their leader bade his lines
advance,
POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY.
23
No musket wavered in the lion's glance ;
Say, when they fainted in the forced
retreat,
They tracked the snow-drifts with their
bleeding feet,
Yet still their banners, tossing in the
blast,
Bore Ever Ready, faithful to the last,
Through storm and battle, till they
waved again
On Yorktown's hills and Saratoga's
plain !
Then, if so fierce the insatiate pa-
triot's flame,
Truth looks too pale, and history seems
too tame,
Bid him await some new Columbiad's
page,
To gild the tablets of an iron age,
And save his tears, which yet may fall
upon
Some fabled field, some fancied "Wash-
ington !
IV.
BUT once again, from their ^Eolian
cave,
The winds of Genius wandered on the
wave.
Tired of the scenes the timid pencil
drew,
Sick of the notes the sounding clarion
blew ;
Sated with heroes who had worn so long
The shadowy plumage of historic song ;
The new-born poet left the beaten
course,
To track the passions to their living
Then rose the Drama ; and the
world admired
Her varied page with deeper thought
inspired ;
Bound to no clime, for Passion's throb
is one
In Greenland's twilight or in India's
sun ;
Born for no age, for all the thoughts
that roll
In the dark vortex of the stormy soul,
Unchained in song, no freezing years
can tame ;
God gave them birth, and man is still
the same.
So full on life her magic mirror shone,
Her sister Arts paid tribute to her
throne ;
One reared her temple, one her canvas
warmed,
And Music thrilled, while Eloquence
informed.
The weary rustic left his stinted task
For smiles and tears, the dagger and
the mask ;
The sage, turned scholar, half forgot his
lore,
To be the woman he despised before ;
O'er sense and thought she threw her
golden chain,
And Time, the anarch, spares her death-
less reign.
Thus lives Medea, in our tamer age,
As when her buskin pressed the Grecian
Not in the cells where frigid learning
delves
In Aldine folios mouldering on their
shelves ;
But breathing, burning in the glitter-
ing throng,
Whose thousand bravoes roll untired
along,
Circling and spreading through the
gilded halls,
From London's galleries to Sari Carlo's
walls !
24
EARLIER POEMS.
Thus shall he live whose more than
mortal name
Mocks with its ray the pallid torch of
Fame ;
So proudly lifted, that it seems afar
No earthly Pharos, but a heavenly star ;
Who, unconfiued to Art's diurnal
bound,
Girds her whole zodiac in his flaming
round,
And leads the passions, like the orb
that guides,
From pole to pole, the palpitating tides !
V.
THOUGH round the Muse the robe of
song is thrown,
Think not the poet lives in verse alone.
Long ere the chisel of the sculptor
taught
The lifeless stone to mock the living
thought ;
Long ere the painter bade the canvas glow
With every line the forms of beauty
know ;
Long ere the iris of the Muses threw
On every leaf its own celestial hue ;
In fable's dress the breath of genius
poured,
And warmed the shapes that later times
adored.
Untaught by Science how to forge the
keys,
That loose the gates of Nature's myste-
Unschooled by Faith, who, with her
angel tread,
Leads through the labyrinth with a
single thread,
His fancy, hovering round her guarded
tower,
Rained through its bars like Danae's
golden shower.
He spoke ; the sea-nymph answered
from her cave :
He called ; the naiad left her mountain
wave :
He dreamed of beauty ; lo, amidst his
dream,
Narcissus, mirrored in the breathless
stream ;
And night's chaste empress, in her bri-
dal play,
Laughed through the foliage where
Endymion lay ;
And ocean dimpled, as the languid swell
Kissed the red lip of Cytherea's shell :
Of power, Bellona swept the crimson
field,
And blue-eyed Pallas shook her Gor-
gon shield ;
O'er the hushed waves their mightier
monarch drove,
And Ida trembled to the tread of Jove !
So every grace that plastic language
knows
To nameless poets its perfection owes.
The rough-hewn words to simplest
thoughts confined
Were cut and polished in their nicer
mind ;
Caught on their edge, imagination's ray
Splits into rainbows, shooting far
away ;
From sense to soul, from soul to sense,
it flies,
And through all nature links analogies ;
He who reads right will rarely look
upon
A better poet than his lexicon !
There is a race, which cold, ungenial
skies
Breed from decay, as fungous growths
arise ;
Though dying fast, yet springing fast
again,
POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY.
25
Which still usurps an unsubstantial
reign,
"With frames too languid for the charms
of sense,
And minds worn down with action too
intense ;
Tired of a world whose joys they never
knew,
Themselves deceived, yet thinking all
untrue ;
Scarce men without, and less than girls
within,
Sick of their life before its cares be-
gin ;
The dull disease, which drains their
feeble hearts,
To life's decay some hectic thrills im-
parts,
And lends a force, which, like the
maniac's power,
Pays with blank years the frenzy of an
hour.
And this is Genius ! Say, does
Heaven degrade
The manly frame, for health, for action
made ?
Break down the sinews, rack the brow
with pains,
Blanch the bright cheek, and drain the
purple veins,
To clothe the mind with more extended
sway,
Thus faintly struggling in degenerate
clay?
No ! gentle maid, too ready to ad-
mire,
Though false its notes, the pale enthusi-
ast's lyre ;
If this be genius, though its bitter springs
Glowed like the morn beneath Aurora's
wings,
Seek not the source whose sullen bosom
feeds
But fruitless flowers, and dark, enven-
omed weeds.
But, if so bright the dear illusion
seems,
Thou wouldst be partner of thy poet's
dreams,
And hang in rapture on his bloodless
charms,
Or die, like Raphael, in his angel arms ;
Go, and enjoy thy blessed lot, to
share
In Cowper's gloom, or Chatterton's de-
spair I
Not such were they, whom, wander-
ing o'er the waves,
I looked to meet, but only found their
graves ;
If friendship's smile, the better part of
fame,
Should lend my song the only wreath I
claim,
Whose voice would greet me with a
sweeter tone,
Whose living hand more kindly press
my own,
Than theirs, could Memory, as her
silent tread
Prints the pale flowers that blossom o'er
the dead,
Those breathless lips, now closed in
peace, restore,
Or wake those pulses hushed to beat no
more ?
Thou calm, chaste scholar ! I can see
thee now,
The first young laurels on thy pallid
brow,
O'er thy slight figure floating lightly
down
In graceful folds the academic gown,
On thy curled lip the classic lines, that
taught
26
EARLIER POEMS.
How nice the mind that sculptured
them with thought,
And triumph glistening in the clear
blue eye,
Too bright to live, but 0, too fair to
die!
And thou, dear friend, whom Science
still deplores,
And love still mourns, on ocean-severed
shores,
Though the bleak forest twice has bowed
with snow,
Have such e'er been ? Remember Can-
ning's name !
Do such still live ? Let " Alaric's Dirge"
proclaim !
Immortal Art ! where'er the rounded
sky
Bends o'er the cradle where thy children
lie,
Their home is earth, their herald every
tongue
Whose accents echo to the voice that
sung.
Since thou wast laid its budding leaves One lea P of Ocean scatte on the sand
below,
Thine image mingles with my closing
strain,
As when we wandered by the turbid Seine,
Both blest with hopes, which revelled,
bright and free,
On all we longed, or all we dreamed to
be;
To thee the amaranth and the cypress
fell,
And I was spared to breathe this last
farewell !
But lived there one in unremembered
days,
Or lives there still, who spurns the poet's
Whose fingers, dewy from Castalia's
springs,
Rest on the lyre, yet scorn to touch the
strings ?
Who shakes the senate with the silver
tone
The groves of Pindus might have sighed
to own ?
The quarried bulwarks of the loosening
land ;
One thrill of earth dissolves a century's
toil
Strewed like the leaves that vanish in
the soil ;
One hill o'erflows, and cities sink below,
Their marbles splintering in the lava's
glow ;
But one sweet tone, scarce whispered to
the air,
From shore to shore the blasts of ages
bear ;
One humble name, which oft, perchance,
has borne
The tyrant's mockery and the courtier's
scorn,
Towers o'er the dust of earth's forgotten
graves,
As once, emerging through the waste of
waves,
The rocky Titan, round whose shattered
spear
Coiled the last whirlpool of the drowning
sphere !
ADDITIONAL POEMS
1837-1848.
THE PILGRIM'S VISION.
IN the hour of twilight shadows
The Pilgrim sire looked out ;
He thought of the "bloudy Salvages"
That lurked all round about,
Of Wituwamet's pictured knife
And Pecksuot's whooping shout ;
For the baby's limbs were feeble,
Though his father's arms were stout.
His home was a freezing cabin,
Too bare for the hungry rat,
Its roof was thatched with ragged grass,
And bald enough of that ;
The hole that served for casement
Was glazed with an ancient hat ;
And the ice was gently thawing
From the log whereon he sat.
Along the dreary landscape
His eyes went to and fro,
The trees all clad in icicles,
The streams that did not flow ;
A sudden thought flashed o'er him,
A dream of long ago,
He smote his leathern jerkin,
And murmured, " Even so ! "
"Come hither, God-be-Glorified,
And sit upon my knee,
Behold the dream unfolding,
Whereof I spake to thee
By the winter's hearth in Leyden
And on the stormy sea ;
True is the dream's beginning,
So may its ending be !
" I saw in the naked forest
Our scattered remnant cast,
A screen of shivering branches
Between them and the blast ;
The snow was falling round them,
The dying fell as fast ;
I looked to see them perish,
When lo, the vision passed.
" Again mine eyes were opened ;
The feeble had waxed strong,
The babes had grown to sturdy men,
The remnant was a throng ;
By shadowed lake and winding stream,
And all the shores along,
The howling demons quaked to hear
The Christian's godly song.
" They slept, the village fathers,
By river, lake, and shore,
When far adown the steep of Time
The vision rose once more ;
I saw along the winter snow
A spectral column pour,
And high above their broken ranks
A tattered flag they bore.
" Their Leader rode before them,
Of bearing calm and high,
28
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
The light of Heaven's own kindling
Throned in his awful eye ;
These were a Nation's champions
Her dread appeal to try ;
God for the right ! I faltered,
And lo, the train passed by.
" Once more ; the strife is ended,
The solemn issue tried,
The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm
Has helped our Israel's side ;
Gray stone and grassy hillock
Tell where our martyrs died,
But peaceful smiles the harvest,
And stainless flows the tide.
" A crash, as when some swollen cloud
Cracks o'er the tangled trees !
"With side to side, and spar to spar,
Whose smoking decks are these ?
I know Saint George's blood-red cross,
Thou Mistress of the Seas,
But what is she, whose streaming bars
Roll out before the breeze ?
"Ah, well her iron ribs are knit,
"Whose thunders strive to quell
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips,
That pealed the Armada's knell !
The mist was cleared, a wreath of
stars
Rose o'er the crimsoned swell,
And, wavering from its haughty peak,
The cross of England fell !
" trembling Faith ! though dark the
morn,
A heavenly torch is thine ;
While feebler races melt away,
And paler orbs decline,
Still shall the fiery pillar's ray,
Along thy pathway shine,
To light the chosen tribe that sought
This Western Palestine !
" I see the living tide roll on ;
It crowns with flaming towers
The icy capes of Labrador,
The Spaniard's ' land of flowers ' !
It streams beyond the splintered ridge
That parts the Northern showers ;
From eastern rock to sunset wave
The Continent is ours ! "
He ceased, the grim old soldier-saint,
Then softly bent to cheer
The pilgrim-child, whose wasting face
Was meekly turned to hear ;
And drew his toil-worn sleeve across,
To brush the manly tear
From cheeks that never changed in woe,
And never blanched in fear.
The weary pilgrim slumbers,
His resting-place unknown ;
His hands were crossed, his lids were
closed,
The dust was o'er him strown ;
The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf,
Along the sod were blown ;
His mound has melted into earth,
His memory lives alone.
So let it live unfading,
The memory of the dead,
Long as the pale anemone
Springs where their tears were shed,
Or, raining in the summer's wind
In flakes of burning red,
The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves
The turf where once they bled !
Yea, when the frowning bulwarks
That guard this holy strand
Have sunk beneath the trampling surge
In beds of sparkling sand,
While in the waste of ocean
One hoary rock shall stand,
Be this its latest legend,
HERE WAS THE PILGRIM'S LAND !
THE STEAMBOAT. LEXINGTON.
29
THE STEAMBOAT.
SEE how you flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves !
With foam before and fire behind,
She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.
The morning spray, like sea-born flow-
ers,
With heaped and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast, in ringing show-
ers,
With every wave that swells ;
And, burning o'er the midnight deep,
. In lurid fringes thrown,
The living gems of ocean sweep
Along her flashing zone.
With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,
And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders foaming by ;
When seas are silent and serene,
With even beam she glides,
The sunshine glimmering through the
green
That skirts her gleaming sides.
Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart
Still sounding through the storm ;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The Pharos of the shore.
To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,
Who trims his narrowed sail ;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep
Her broad breast to the gale ;
And many a foresail, scooped and
strained,
Shall break from yard and stay,
Before this smoky wreath has stained
The rising mist of day.
Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling
shroud,
I see yon quivering mast ;
The black throat of the hunted cloud
Is panting forth the blast !
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing
chaff,
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon staff,
White as the sea-bird's wing !
Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire ;
Sleep on, and, when the morning
light
Streams o'er the shining bay,
think of those for whom the night
Shall never wake in day !
LEXINGTON.
SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was
creeping,
Bright on the dewy buds glistened
the sun,
When from his couch, while his chil-
dren were sleeping,
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered
his gun.
Waving her golden veil
Over the silent dale,
Blithe looked the morning on cottage
and spire ;
Hushed was his parting sigh,
While from his noble eye
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.
30
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
On the smooth green where the fresh
leaf is springing
Calmly the first-born of glory have
met ;
Hark ! the death-volley around them is
ringing !
Look ! with their life-blood the
young grass is wet !
Faint is the feeble breath,
Murmuring low in death,
"Tell to our sons how their fathers
have died " ;
Nerveless the iron hand,
Raised for its native land,
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its
side.
Over the hillsides the wild knell is
tolling,
From their far hamlets the yeomanry
come ;
As through the storm-clouds the thun-
der-burst rolling,
Circles the beat of the mustering
drum.
Fast on the soldier's path
Darken the waves of wrath,
Long have they gathered and loud shall
they fall ;
Red glares the musket's flash,
Sharp rings the rifle's crash,
Blazing and clanging from thicket and
wall.
Gayly the plume of the horseman was
dancing,
Never to shadow his cold brow again ;
Proudly at morning the war-steed was
prancing,
Reeking and panting he droops on the
rein ;
Pale is the lip of scorn,
Voiceless the trumpet horn,
Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on
high;
Many a belted breast
Low on the turf shall rest,
Ere the dark hunters the herd have
passed by.
Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse
wind is raving,
Rocks where the weary floods murmur
and wail,
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is
waving,
Reeled with the echoes that rode on
the gale ;
Far as the tempest thrills
Over the darkened hills,
Far as the sunshine streams over the
plain,
Roused by the tyrant band,
Woke all the mighty land,
Girded for battle, from mountain to
Green be the graves where her martyrs
are lying !
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to
their rest,
While o'er their ashes the starry fold
flying
Wraps the proud eagle they roused
from his nest.
Borne on her Northern pine,
Long o'er the foaming brine
Spread her broad banner to storm and
to sun ;
Heaven keep her ever free,
Wide as o'er land and sea
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have
won !
ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.
THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it
tells of good old times,
Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and
merry Christmas chimes ;
ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.
31
They were a free and jovial race, but
honest, brave, and true,
That dipped their ladle in the punch
when this old bowl was new.
A Spanish galleon brought the bar ; so
runs the ancient tale ;
'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith,
whose arm was like a flail ;
And now and then between the strokes,
for fear his strength should fail,
He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup
of good old Flemish ale.
'T was purchased by an English squire
to please his loving dame,
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a
longing for the same ;
And oft as on the ancient stock another
twig was found,
'T was tilled with caudle spiced and hot,
and handed smoking round.
But, changing hands, it reached at
length a Puritan divine,
Who used to follow Timothy, and take
a little wine,
But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it
was, perhaps,
He went to Ley den, where he found
conventicles and schnaps.
And then, of course, you know what 's
next, it left the Dutchman's shore
With those that in the Mayflower came,
a hundred souls and more,
Along with all the furniture, to fill their
new abodes,
To judge by what is still on hand, at
least a hundred loads.
'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the
night was closing dim,
When brave Miles Stan dish took the
bowl, and filled it to the brim;
The little Captain stood and stirred the
posset with his sword,
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were
ranged about the board.
He poured the fiery Hollands in, the
man that never feared,
He took a long and solemn draught, and
wiped his yellow beard ;
And one by one the musketeers the
men that fought and prayed
All drank as 't were their mother's
milk, and not a man afraid.
That night, affrighted from his nest, the
screaming eagle flew,
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop,
the soldier's wild halloo ;
And there the sachem learned the rule
he taught to kith and kin,
" Run from the white man when you
find he smells of Hollands gin ! "
A hundred years, and fifty more, had
spread their leaves and snows,
A thousand rubs had flattened down
each little cherub's nose,
When once again the bowl was filled,
but not in mirth or joy,
'T was mingled by a mother's hand to
cheer her parting boy.
Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you
good, poor child, you '11 never
bear
This working in the dismal trench, out
in the midnight air ;
And if God bless me! you were
hurt, 't would keep away the chill ;
So John did drink, and well he
wrought that night at Bunker's Hill !
I tell you, there was generous warmth
in good old English cheer ;
I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to
bring its symbol here ;
32
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
'T is but the fool that loves excess ;
hast thou a drunken soul?
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in
my silver bowl !
I love the memory of the past, its
pressed yet fragrant flowers,
The moss that clothes its broken walls,
the ivy on its towers ;
Nay, this poor bawble it bequeathed,
my eyes grow moist and dim,
To think of all the vanished joys that
danced around its brim.
Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear
it straight to me ;
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er
the liquid be ;
And may the cherubs on its face protect
me from the sin,
That dooms one to those dreadful words,
* * My dear, where have you been ? "
A SONG
FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF
HARVARD COLLEGE, 1836.
WHEN the Puritans came over,
Our hills and swamps to clear,
The woods were full of catamounts,
And Indians red as deer,
With tomahawks and scalping-knives,
That make folks' heads look queer;
the ship from England used to bring
A hundred wigs a year !
The crows came cawing through the air
To pluck the pilgrims' corn,
The bears came snuffing round the door
Whene'er a babe was born,
The rattlesnakes were bigger round
Than the but of the old ram's horn
The deacon blew at meeting time
On every "Sabbath" morn.
But soon they knocked the wigwams
down,
And pine-tree trunk and limb
Began to sprout among the leaves
In shape of steeples slim ;
And out the little wharves were stretched
Along the ocean's rim,
And up the little school-house shot
To keep the boys in trim.
And, when at length the College rose,
The sachem cocked his eye
At every tutor's meagre ribs
Whose coat-tails whistled by :
But when the Greek and Hebrew words
Came tumbling from their jaws,
The copper-colored children all
Ran screaming to the squaws.
And who was on the Catalogue
When college was begun ?
Two nephews of the President,
And the Professor's son ;
(They turned a little Indian by,
As brown as any bun ;)
Lord ! how the seniors knocked about
The freshman class of one !
They had not then the dainty things
That commons now afford,
But succotash and homony
Were smoking on the board ;
They did not rattle round in gigs,
Or dash in long- tail blues,
But always on Commencement days
The tutors blacked their shoes.
God bless the ancient Puritans !
Their lot was hard enough ;
But honest hearts make iron arms,
And tender maids are tough ;
So love and faith have formed and fed
Our true-born Yankee stuff,
And keep the kernel in the shell
The British found so rough !
THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG. THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 33
THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG.
No more the summer floweret charms,
The leaves will soon be sere,
And Autumn folds his jewelled arms
Around the dying year ;
So, ere the waning seasons claim
Our leafless groves awhile,
"With golden wine and glowing flame
"We '11 crown our lonely isle.
Once more the merry voices sound
Within the antlered hall,
And long and loud the baying hounds
Return the hunter's call ;
And through the woods, and o'er the hill,
And far along the bay,
The driver's horn is sounding shrill,
Up, sportsmen, and away !
No bars of steel, or walls of stone,
Our little empire bound,
But, circling with his azure zone,
The sea runs foaming round ;
The whitening wave, the purpled skies,
The blue and lifted shore,
Braid with their dim and blending dyes
Our wide horizon o'er.
And who will leave the grave debate
That shakes the smoky town,
To rule amid our island-state,
And wear our oak -leaf crown ?
And who will be awhile content
To hunt our woodland game,
And leave the vulgar pack that scent
The reeking track of fame ?
Ah, who that shares in toils like these
Will sigh not to prolong
Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees,
Our nights of mirth and song ?
Then leave the dust of noisy streets,
Ye outlaws of the wood,
And follow through his green retreats
Your noble Robin Hood.
DEPARTED DAYS.
YES, dear departed, cherished days,
Could Memory's hand restore
Your morning light, your evening rays
From Time's gray urn once more,
Then might this restless heart be still,
This straining eye might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,
While the fair phantoms rose.
But, like a child in ocean's arms,
We strive against the stream,
Each moment farther from the shore
Where life's young fountains gleam ;
Each moment fainter wave the fields,
And wider rolls the sea ;
The mist grows dark, the sun goes
down,
Day breaks, and where are we ?
THE ONLY DAUGHTER.
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.
THEY bid me strike the idle strings,
As if my summer days
Had shaken sunbeams from their wings
To warm my autumn lays ;
They bring to me their painted urn,
As if it were not time
To lift my gauntlet and to spurn
The lists of boyish rhyme ;
And, were it not that I have still
Some weakness in my heart
That clings around my stronger will
And pleads for gentler art,
Perchance I had not turned away
The thoughts grown tame with toil,
To cheat this lone and pallid ray,
That wastes the midnight oil.
Alas ! with every year I feel
Some roses leave my brow ;
Too young for wisdom's tardy seal,
Too old for garlands now ;
34
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Yet, while the dewy breath of spring
Steals o'er the tingling air,
And spreads and fans each emerald wing
The forest soon shall wear,
How bright the opening year would seem,
Had I one look like thine,
To meet me when the morning beam
Unseals these lids of mine !
Too long I bear this lonely lot,
That bids my heart run wild
To press the lips that love me not,
To clasp the stranger's child.
How oft beyond the dashing seas,
Amidst those royal bowers,
Where danced the lilacs in the breeze,
And swung the chestnut-flowers,
I wandered like a wearied slave
Whose morning task is done,
To watch the little hands that gave
Their whiteness to the sun ;
To revel in the bright young eyes,
Whose lustre sparkled through
The sable fringe of Southern skies
Or gleamed in Saxon blue !
How oft I heard another's name
Called in some truant's tone ;
Sweet accents ! which I longed to claim,
To learn and lisp my own !
Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed
The ringlets of the child,
Are folded on the faithful breast
Where first he breathed and smiled ;
Too oft the clinging arms untwine,
The melting lips forget,
And darkness veils the bridal shrine
Where wreaths and torches met ;
If Heaven but leaves a single thread
Of Hope's dissolving chain,
Even when her parting plumes are spread,
It bids them fold again ;
The cradle rocks beside the tomb ;
The cheek now changed and chill
Smiles on us in the morning bloom
Of one that loves us still.
Sweet image ! I have done thee wrong
To claim this destined lay ;
The leaf that asked an idle song
Must bear my tears away.
Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep
This else forgotten strain,
Till years have taught thine eyes to weep,
And flattery's voice is vain ;
then, thou fledgling of the nest,
Like the long-wandering dove,
Thy weary heart may faint for rest,
As mine, on changeless love ;
And while these sculptured lines retrace
The hours now dancing by,
This vision of thy girlish grace
May cost thee, too, a sigh.
SONG
WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO
CHARLES DICKENS, BY THE YOUNG
MEN OF BOSTON, FEB. 1, 1842.
THE stars their early vigils keep,
The silent hours are near,
When drooping eyes forget to weep,
Yet still we linger here ;
And what the passing churl may ask
Can claim such wondrous power,
That Toil forgets his wonted task,
And Love his promised hour ?
The Irish harp no longer thrills,
Or breathes a fainter tone ;
The clarion blast from Scotland's hills,
Alas ! no more is blown ;
And Passion's burning lip bewails
Her Harold's wasted fire,
Still lingering o'er the dust that veils
The Lord of England's lyre.
But grieve not o'er its broken strings,
Nor think its soul hath died,
LINES.
35
"While yet the lark at heaven's gate sings,
As once o'er Avon's side ;
"While gentle summer sheds her bloom,
And dewy blossoms wave,
Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb
And Nelly's nameless grave.
Thou glorious island of the sea !
Though wide the wasting flood
That parts our distant land from thee,
We claim thy generous blood ;
Nor o'er thy far horizon springs
One hallowed star of fame,
But kindles, like an angel's wings,
Our western skies in flame !
LINES
RECITED AT THE BERKSHIRE FESTIVAL.
COME back to your mother, ye children,
for shame,
Who have wandered like truants, for
riches or fame !
With a smile on her face, and a sprig in
her cap,
She calls you to feast from her bountiful
* lap.
Come out from your alleys, your courts,
and your lanes,
And breathe, like young eagles, the air
of our plains ;
Take a whiff from our fields, and your
excellent wives
Will declare it 's all nonsense insuring
your lives.
Come you of the law, who can talk, if
you please,
Till the man in the moon will allow it 's
a cheese,
And leave " the old lady, that never tells
lies,"
To sleep with her handkerchief over her
eyes.
Ye healers of men, for a moment decline
Your feats in the rhubarb and ipecac
line ;
While you shut up your turnpike, your
neighbors can go,
The old roundabout road, to the regions
below.
You clerk, on whose ears are a couple of
pens,
And whose head is an ant-hill of units
and tens ;
Though Plato denies you, we welcome
you still
As a featherless biped, in spite of your
quill.
Poor drudge of the city ! how happy he
feels,
With the burs on his legs, and the grass
at his heels !
No dodger behind, his bandannas to
share,
No constable grumbling, "You mustn't
walk there ! "
In yonder green meadow, to memory
dear,
He slaps a mosquito and brushes a tear ;
The dew-drops hang round him on blos-
soms and shoots,
He breathes but one sigh for his youth
and his boots.
There stands the old school-house, hard
by the old church ;
That tree at its side had the flavor of
birch ;
sweet were the days of his juvenile
tricks,
Though the prairie of youth had so many
"big licks."
By the side of yon river he weeps and
he slumps,
The boots fill with water, as if they were
pumps,
36
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Till, sated with rapture, lie steals to his
bed,
With a glow in his heart and a cold in
his head.
T is past, he is dreaming, I see him
again ;
The ledger returns as by legerdemain ;
His neckcloth is damp with an easterly
flaw,
And he holds in his fingers an omnibus
straw.
He dreams the chill gust is a blossomy
gale,
That the straw is a rose from his dear
native vale ;
And murmurs, unconscious of space and
of time,
"A 1. Extra super. Ah, isn't it
PRIME ! "
what are the prizes we perish to win
To the first little "shiner" we caught
with a pin !
No soil upon earth is so dear to our eyes
As the soil we first stirred in terrestrial
pies !
Then come from all parties, and parts,
to our feast ;
Though not at the " Astor," we '11 give
you at least
A bite at an apple, a seat on the grass,
And the best of old water at noth-
ing a glass.
NUX POSTCCENATICA.
1 WAS sitting with my microscope, upon
my parlor rug,
"With a very heavy quarto and a very
* lively bug ;
The true bug had been organized with
only two antennae,
But the humbug in the copperplate would
have them twice as many.
And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the
emptiness of art,
How we take a fragment for the whole,
and call the whole a part,
When I heard a heavy footstep that was
loud enough for two,
And a man of forty entered, exclaiming,
" How d'ye do ? "
He was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid
flesh and bone ;
He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was
twenty stone ;
(It 's odd how hats expand their brims
as riper years invade,
As if when life had reached its noon, it
wanted them for shade !)
I lost my focus, dropped my book,
the bug, who was a flea,
At once exploded, and commenced ex-
periments on me.
They have a certain heartiness that fre-
quently appalls,
Those mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar
smalls !
" My boy," he said, (colloquial ways,
the vast, broad-hatted man,)
" Come dine with us on Thursday next,
you must, you know you can ;
We 're going to have a roaring time, with
lots of fun and noise,
Distinguished guests, et cetera, the
JUDGE, and all the boys."
Not so, I said, my temporal bones
are showing pretty clear.
It's time to stop, just look and see
that hair above this ear ;
My golden days are more than spent,
and, what is very strange,
If these are real silver hairs, I 'in getting
lots of change.
Besides my prospects don't you
know that people won't employ
NUX POSTCCENATICA.
37
A man that wrongs his manliness by
laughing like a boy ?
And suspect the azure blossom that un-
folds upon a shoot,
As if wisdom's old potato could not
flourish at its root ?
It 's a very fine reflection, when you 're
etching out a smile
On a copperplate of faces that would
stretch at least a mile,
That, what with sneers from enemies,
and cheapening shrugs of friends,
It will cost you all the earnings that a
month of labor lends !
It 's a vastly pleasing prospect, when
you 're screwing out a laugh,
That your very next year's income is
diminished by a half,
And a little boy trips barefoot that
Pegasus may go,
And the baby's milk is watered that
your Helicon may flow !
No ; the joke has been a good one,
but I 'm getting fond of quiet,
And I don't like deviations from my
customary diet ;
So I think I will not go with you to
hear the toasts and speeches,
But stick to old Montgomery Place, and
have some pig and peaches.
The fat man answered : Shut your
mouth, and hear the genuine creed ;
The true essentials of a feast are only
fun and feed ;
The force that wheels the planets round
delights in spinning tops,
And that young earthquake t' other day
was great at shaking props.
I tell you what, philosopher, if all the
longest heads
That ever knocked their sinciputs in
stretching on their beds
Were round one great mahogany, I 'd
beat those fine old folks
With twenty dishes, twenty fools, and
twenty clever jokes !
Why, if Columbus should be there, the
company would beg
He 'd show that little trick of his of
balancing the egg !
Milton to Stilton would give in, and
Solomon to Salmon,
And Roger Bacon be a bore, and Francis
Bacon gammon !
And as for all the "patronage" of all
the clowns and boors
That squint their little narrow eyes at
any freak of yours,
Do leave them to your prosier friends,
such fellows ought to die
When rhubarb is so very scarce and
ipecac so high !
And so I come, like Lochinvar, to
tread a single measure,
To purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar-
plum of pleasure,
To enter for the cup of glass that 's run
for after dinner,
Which yields a single sparkling draught,
then breaks and cuts the winner.
Ah, that 's the way delusion comes,
a glass of old Madeira,
A pair of visual diaphragms revolved by
Jane or Sarah,
And down go vows and promises with-
out the slightest question
If eating words won't compromise the
organs of digestion !
And jet, among my native shades, be-
side my nursing mother,
38
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
"Where every stranger seems a friend,
and every friend a brother,
I feel the old convivial glow (unaided)
o'er me stealing,
The warm, champagny, old-particular,
brandy-punchy feeling.
We're all alike ; Vesuvius flings the
scoriae from his fountain,
But down they come in volleying rain
back to the burning mountain ;
We leave, like those volcanic stones, our
precious Alma Mater,
But will keep dropping in again to see
the dear old crater.
VERSES FOR AFTER DINNER.
* B K SOCIETY, 1844.
I WAS thinking last night r as I sat in
the cars,
With the charmingest prospect of cin-
ders and stars,
Next Thursday is bless me ! how
hard it will be,
If that cannibal president calls upon me !
There is nothing on earth that he will
not devour,
From a tutor in seed to a freshman in
flower ;
No sage is too gray, and no youth is too
green,
And you can't be too plump, though you
're never too lean.
While others enlarge on the boiled and
the roast,
He serves a raw clergyman up with a
toast,
Or catches some doctor, quite tender and
young,
And basely insists on a bit of his tongue.
Poor victim, prepared for his classical
spit,
With a stuffing of praise, and a basting
of wit,
You may twitch at your collar, and wrin-
kle your brow,
But you 're up on your legs, and you're
in for it now.
think of your friends, they are wait-
ing to hear
Those jokes that are thought so remark-
ably queer ;
And all the Jack Homers of metrical
buns
Are prying and fingering to pick out the
puns.
Those thoughts which, like chickens,
will always thrive best
When reared by the heat of the natural
nest,
Will perish if hatched from their embryo
dream
In the mist and the glow of convivial
steam.
pardon me, then, if I meekly retire,
With a very small flash of ethereal fire ;
No rubbing will kindle your Lucifer
match,
If ihefiz does not follow the primitive
scratch.
Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly
the while,
With your lips double-reefed in a snug
little smile,
1 leave you two fables, both drawn from
the deep,
The shells you can drop, but the pearls
you may keep.
* * *
The fish called the FLOUNDER, perhaps
you may know,
Has one side for use and another for
show ;
A MODEST BEQUEST.
39
One side for the public, a delicate brown,
And one that is white, which he always
keeps down.
A very young flounder, the flattest of
flats,
(And they 're none of them thicker than
opera hats,)
Was speaking more freely than charity
taught
Of a friend and relation that just had
been caught.
"My ! what an exposure! just see what
a sight !
I blush for my race, he is showing his
white !
Such spinning and wriggling, why,
what does he wish ?
How painfully small to respectable fish !"
Then said an old SCULPIN, " My free-
dom excuse,
But you '-re playing the cobbler with holes
in your shoes ;
Your brown side is up, but just wait
till you 're tried
And you'll find that all flounders are
white on one side."
* * *
There 's a slice near the PICKEREL'S pec-
toral fins,
Where the thorax leaves off and the
venter begins ;
Which his brother, survivor of fish-hooks
and lines,
Though fond of his family, never declines.
He loves his relations ; he feels they '11
be missed ;
But that one little titbit he cannot re-
sist ;
So your bait may be swallowed, no mat-
ter how fast,
For you catch your next fish with a piece
of the last.
And thus, survivor, whose merciless
fate
Is to take the next hook with the presi-
dent's bait,
You are lost while you snatch from the
end of his line
The morsel he rent from this bosom of
mine !
A MODEST REQUEST
COMPLIED WITH AFTER THE DINNER AT
PRESIDENT EVERETT'S INAUGURATION.
SCENE, a back parlor in a certain
square,
Or court, or lane, in short, no matter
where ;
Time, early morning, dear to simple
souls
Who love its sunshine, and its fresh-
baked rolls ;
Persons, take pity . on this telltale
blush,
That, like the ^Ethiop, whispers, "Hush,
hush ! "
Delightful scene ! where smiling comfort
broods,
Nor business frets, nor anxious care in-
trudes ;
si sic omnia ! were it ever so !
But what is stable in this world below ?
Medio efonte, : Virtue has her faults,
The clearest fountains taste of Epsom
salts ;
We snatch the cup and lift to drain it
dry,
Its central dimple holds a drowning fly!
Strong is the pine by Maine's ambrosial
streams,
But stronger augers pierce its thickest
beams ;
No iron gate, no spiked and panelled
door,
40
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Can keep out death, the postman, or the
bore ;
for a world where peace and silence
reign,
And blunted dulness terebrates in vain !
The door-bell jingles, enter Rich-
ard Fox,
And takes this letter from his leathern
box.
"Dear Sir,
In writing on a former day,
One little matter I forgot to say ;
1 now inform you in a single line,
On Thursday next our purpose is to dine.
The act of feeding, as you understand,
Is but a fraction of the work in hand ;
Its nobler half is that ethereal meat
The papers call ' the intellectual treat ';
Songs, speeches, toasts, around the fes-
tive board
Drowned in the juice the College pumps
afford ;
For only water flanks our knives and
forks,
So, sink or float, we swim without the
corks.
Yours is the art, by native genius taught,
To clothe in eloquence the naked thought ;
Yours is the skill its music to prolong
Through the sweet effluence of melliflu-
ous song ;
Yours the quaint trick to cram the pithy
line
That cracks so crisply over bubbling wine ;
And since success your various gifts at-
tends,
"We that is, I and all your numerous
friends
Expect from you your single self a
host
A speech, a song, excuse me, and a toast ;
Nay, not to haggle on so small a claim,
A few of each, or several of the same.
(Signed), Yours, most truly, "
No ! my sight must fail,
If that ain't Judas on the largest scale !
Well, this is modest; nothing else
than that ?
My coat ? my boots ? my pantaloons ?
my hat ?
My stick ? my gloves ? as well as all
my wits,
Learning and linen, everything that
fits!
Jack, said my lady, is it grog you '11 try,
Or punch, or toddy, if perhaps you 're
dry?
Ah, said the sailor, though I can't re-
fuse,
You know, my lady, 't ain't for me to
choose ;
I '11 take the grog to finish off my lunch,
And drink the toddy while you mix the
punch.
THE SPEECH. (The speaker, rising to
be seen,
Looks very red, because so very green.)
I rise I rise with unaffected fear,
(Louder ! speak louder ! who the
deuce can hear ? )
I rise I said with undisguised dis-
' may
Such are my feelings as I rise, I say !
Quite unprepared to face this learned
throng,
Already gorged with eloquence and song;
Around my view are ranged on either
hand
The genius, wisdom, virtue, of the land ;
"Hands that the rod of empire might
have swayed "
Close at my elbow stir their lemonade ;
Would j r ou like Homer learn to write
and speak,
That bench is groaning with its weight
of Greek ;
A MODEST BEQUEST.
41
Behold the naturalist who in his teens
Found six new species in a dish of greens;
And lo, the master in a statelier walk,
Whose annual ciphering takes a ton of
chalk ;
And there the linguist, who by common
roots
Thro' all their nurseries track sold Noah's
shoots,
How Shem's proud children reared the
Assyrian piles,
"While Ham's were scattered through the
Sandwich Isles !
Fired at the thought of all the pres-
ent shows,
My kindling fancy down the future
flows :
I see the glory of the coming days
O'er Time's horizon shoot its streaming
rays ;
Near and more near the radiant morning
draws
In living lustre (rapturous applause) ;
From east to west the blazing heralds run,
Loosed from the chariot of the ascend-
ing sun,
Through the long vista of uncounted
years
In cloudless splendor (three tremendous
cheers).
My eye prophetic, as the depths unfold,
Sees a new advent of the age of gold ;
"While o'er the scene new generations
press,
New heroes rise the coming time to
bless,
Not such as Homer's, who, we read in
Pope,
Dined without forks and never heard of
soap,
Not such as May to Marlborough Chapel
brings,
Lean, hungry, savage, anti-everythings,
Copies of Luther in the pasteboard
style,
But genuine articles, the true Carlyle ;
While far on high the blazing orb shall
shed
Its central light on Harvard's holy head,
And Learning's ensigns ever float un-
furled
Here in the focus of the new-born world !
The speaker stops, and, trampling down
the pause,
Roars through the hall the thunder of
applause,
One stormy gust of long-suspended Ahs !
One whirlwind chaos of insane hurrahs !
THE SONG. But this demands a briefer
line,
A shorter muse, and not the old long
Nine ;
Long metre answers for a common song,
Though common metre does not answer
long.
She came beneath the forest dome
To seek its peaceful shade,
An exile from her ancient home,
A poor, forsaken maid ;
No banner, flaunting high above,
No blazoned cross, she bore ;
One holy book of light and love
Was all her worldly store.
The dark brown shadows passed away,
And wider spread the green,
And, where the savage used to stray,
The rising mart was seen ;
So, when the laden winds had brought
Their showers of golden rain,
Her lap some precious gleanings caught,
Like Ruth's amid the grain.
But wrath soon gathered uncontrolled
Among the baser churls,
42
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
To see her ankles red with gold,
Her forehead white with pearls ;
" Who gave to thee the glittering band.^
That lace thine azure veins ?
Who bade thee lift those snow-white
hands
We bound in gilded chains ? "
" These are the gems my children gave,"
The stately dame replied ;
"The wise, the gentle, and the brave,
I nurtured at my side ;
If envy still your bosom stings,
Take back their rims of gold ;
My sons will melt their wedding-rings,
And give a hundred-fold ! "
THE TOAST. tell me, ye who thought-
less ask
Exhausted nature for a threefold task,
In wit or pathos if one share remains,
A safe investment for an ounce of brains ?
Hard is the job to launch the desperate
pun,
A pun-job dangerous as the Indian one.
Turned by the current of some stronger
wit
Back from the object that you mean to
hit,
Like the strange missile which the Aus-
tralian throws,
Your verbal boomerang slaps you on the
nose.
One vague inflection spoils the whole
with doubt,
One trivial letter ruins all, l.eft out ;
A knot can choke a felon into clay,
A not will save him, spelt without the k ;
The smallest word has some unguarded
spot,
And danger lurks in i without a dot.
Thus great Achilles, who had shown his
zeal
In healing wounds, died of a wounded
heel;
Unhappy chief, who, when in childhood
doused,
Had saved his bacon, had his feet been
soused !
Accursed heel that killed a hero stout !
0, had your mother known that you
were out,
Death had not entered at the trifling
part
That still defies the small chirurgeon's
art
With corns and bunions, not the glo-
rious John,
Who wrote the book we all have pon-
dered on,
But other bunions, bound in fleecy hose,
To " Pilgrim's Progress " unrelenting
foes!
A health, unmingled with the reveller's
wine,
To him whose title is indeed divine ;
Truth's sleepless watchman on her mid-
night tower,
Whose lamp burns brightest when the
tempests lower.
who can tell with what a leaden flight
Drag the long watches of his weary
night,
While at his feet the hoarse and blind-
ing gale
Strews the torn wreck and bursts the
fragile sail,
When stars have faded, when the wave
is dark,
When rocks and sands embrace the
foundering bark,
And still he pleads with unavailing cry,
Behold the light, wanderer, look or
die !
A health, fair Themis! Would the
enchanted vine
THE STETHOSCOPE SONG.
43
Wreathed its green tendrils round this
cup of thine ;
If Learning's radiance fill thy modern
court,
Its glorious sunshine streams through
Blackstone's port !
Lawyers are thirsty, and their clients too,
Witness at least, if memory serve me
true,
Those old tribunals, famed for dusty
suits,
W T here men sought justice ere they
brushed their boots ;
And what can match, to solve a learned
doubt,
The warmth within that comes from
" cold without " ?
Health to the art whose glory is to give
The crowning boon that makes it life to
live.
Ask not her home ; the rock where
nature flings
Her arctic lichen, last of living things,
The gardens, fragrant with the orient's
balm,
From the low jasmine to the star-like
palm,
Hail her as mistress o'er the distant
waves,
And yield their tribute to her wandering
slaves.
Wherever, moistening the ungrateful
soil,
The tear of suffering tracks the path of
toil,
There, in the anguish of his fevered
hours,
Her gracious finger points to healing
flowers ;
Where the lost felon steals away to die,
Her soft hand waves before his closing
eye ;
Where hunted misery finds his darkest
lair,
The midnight taper shows her kneeling
there !
VIRTUE, the guide that men and
nations own ;
And LAW, the bulwark that protects
her throne ;
And HEALTH, to all its happiest
charm that lends ;
These and their servants, man's untiring
friends ;
Pour the bright lymph that Heaven itself
lets fall, -
In one fair bumper let us toast them all !
THE STETHOSCOPE SONG.
A PROFESSIONAL BALLAD.
THERE was a young man in Boston town,
He bought him a STETHOSCOPE nice
and new,
All mounted and finished and polished
down,
With an ivory cap and a stopper too.
It happened a spider within did crawl,
And spun him a web of ample size,
Wherein there chanced one day to fall
A couple of very imprudent flies.
The first was a bottle-fly, big and blue,
The second was smaller, and thin and
long;
So there was a concert between the two,
Like an octave flute and a tavern gong.
Now being from Paris but recently,
This fine young man would show his
skill ;
And so they gave him, his hand to try,
A hospital patient extremely ill.
Some said that his liver was short of bile,
And some that his heart was over size,
44
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
While some kept arguing all the while
He was crammed with tubercles up to
his eyes.
This fine young man then up stepped he,
And all the doctors made a pause ;
Said he, The man must die, you see,
By the fifty-seventh of Louis's laws.
But since the case is a desperate one,
To explore his chest it may be well ;
For if he should die and it were not done,
You know the autopsy would not tell.
Then out his stethoscope he took,
And on it placed his curious ear ;
Mon Dieu ! said he, with a knowing look,
Why here is a sound that 's mighty
queer !
The bourdonnement is very clear,
Amphoric buzzing, as I 'm alive !
Five doctors took their turn to hear ;
Amphoric buzzing, said all the five.
There 's empyema beyond a doubt ;
We '11 plunge a trocar in his side.
The diagnosis was made out,
They tapped the patient ; so he died.
Now such as hate new-fashioned toys
Began to look extremely glum ;
They said that rattles were made for boys,
And vowed that his buzzing was all a
hum.
There was an old lady had long been
sick,
And what was the matter none did
know :
Her pulse was slow, though her tongue
was quick ;
To her this knowing youth must go.
So there the nice old lady sat,
With phials and boxes all in a row ;
She asked the young doctor what he
was at,
To thump her and tumble her ruffles so.
Now, when the stethoscope came out,
The flies began to buzz and whiz ;
ho ! the matter is clear, no doubt ;
An aneurism there plainly is.
The bruit de rdpe and the bruit de scie
And the bruit de diable are all com-
bined ;
How happy Bouillaud would be,
If he a case like this could find !
Now, when the neighboring doctors
found
A case so rare had been descried,
They every day her ribs did pound
In squads of twenty ; so she died.
Then six young damsels, slight and frail,
Received this kind young doctor's
cares ;
They all were getting slim and pale,
And short of breath on mounting
stairs.
They all made rhymes with "sighs" and
" skies,"
And loathed their puddings and but-
tered rolls,
And dieted, much to their friends' sur-
prise,
On pickles and pencils and chalk and
coals.
So fast their little hearts did bound,
The frightened insects buzzed the
more ;
So over all their chests he found
The rale sifflant, and rale sonore.
He shook his head ; there 's grave
disease,
I greatly fear you all must die ;
EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM.
45
A slight post-mortem, if you please,
Surviving friends would gratify.
The six young damsels wept aloud,
Which so prevailed on six young men,
That each his honest love avowed,
Whereat they all got well again.
This poor young man was all aghast ;
The price of stethoscopes came down ;
And so he was reduced at last
To practise in a country town.
The doctors being very sore,
A stethoscope they did devise,
That had a rammer to clear the bore,
With a knob at the end to kill the flies.
Now use your ears, all you that can,
But don't forget to mind your eyes,
Or you may be cheated, like this young
man,
By a couple of silly, abnormal flies.
EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM.
THE STABILITY OF SCIENCE.
THE feeble sea-birds, blinded in the
storms,
On some tall lighthouse dash their little
forms,
And the rude granite scatters for their
pains
Those small deposits that were meant for
brains.
Yet the jiroud fabric in the morning's sun
Stands all unconscious of the mischief
done ;
Still the red beacon pours its evening rays
For the lost pilot with as full a blaze,
Kay, shines, all radiance, o'er the scat-
tered fleet
Of gulls and boobies brainless at its feet.
I tell their fate, though courtesy dis-
claims
To call our kind by such ungentle names ;
Yet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare,
Think of their doom, ye simple, and
beware !
See where aloft its hoary forehead rears
The towering pride of twice a thousand
years !
Far, far below the vast incumbent pile
Sleeps the gray rock from art's ^Egean
isle ;
Its massive courses, circling as they rise,
Swell from the waves to mingle with the
skies ;
There every quarry lends its marble spoil,
And clustering ages blend their common
toil ;
The Greek, the Roman, reared its an-
cient w r alls,
The silent Arab arched its mystic halls ;
In that fair niche, by countless billows
laved,
Trace the deep lines that Sydenham en-
graved ;
On yon broad front that breasts the
changing swell,
Mark where the ponderous sledge of
Hunter fell ;
By that square buttress look where
Louis stands,
The stone yet warm from his uplifted
hands ;
And say, Science, shall thy life-blood
freeze,
When fluttering folly flaps on walls like
these ?
A PORTRAIT.
THOUGHTFUL in youth, but not aus-
tere in age ;
Calm, but not cold, and cheerful though
a sage ;
Too true to flatter, and too kind to
sneer,
And only just when seemingly severe ;
So gently blending courtesy and art,
46 '
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
That wisdom's lips seemed borrowing
friendship's heart.
Taught by the sorrows that his age had
known
In others' trials to forget his own,
As hour by hour his lengthened day de-
clined,
A sweeter radiance lingered o'er his
mind.
Cold were the lips that spoke his early
praise,
And hushed the voices of his morning
days,
Yet the same accents dwelt on every
tongue,
And love renewing kept him ever young.
A SENTIMENT.
'0 jSi'os ppaxts, life is but a song ;
'H r^x v ~n pa-KpT)) art is wondrous long ;
Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair,
And Patience smiles, though Genius may
despair.
Give us but knowledge, though by slow
And blend our toil with moments bright
as these ;
Let Friendship's accents cheer our doubt-
ful way,
And Love's pure planet lend its guiding
ray,
Our tardy Art shall wear an angel's wings,
And life shall lengthen with the joy it
brings !
THE PARTING WORD.
I MUST leave thee, lady sweet !
Months shall waste before we meet ;
Winds are fair, and sails are spread,
Anchors leave their ocean bed ;
Ere this shining day grow dark,
Skies shall gird my shoreless bark ;
Through thy tears, lady mine,
Read thy lover's parting line.
When the first sad sun shall set,
Thou shalt tear thy locks of jet ;
When the morning star shall rise,
Thou shalt wake with weeping eyes ;
When the second sun goes down,
Thou more tranquil shalt be grown,
Taught too well that wild despair
Dims thine eyes, and spoils thy hair.
All the first unquiet week
Thou shalt wear a smileless cheek ;
In the first month's second half
Thou shalt once attempt to laugh ;
Then in Pickwick thou shalt dip,
Slightly puckering round the lip,
Till at last, in sorrow's spite,
Samuel makes thee laugh outright.
While the first seven mornings last,
Round thy chamber bolted fast,
Many a youth shall fume and pout,
" Hang the girl, she 's always out ! "
While the second week goes round,
Vainly shall they ring and pound ;
When the third week shall begin,
" Martha, let the creature in."
Now once more the flattering throng
Round thee flock with smile and song,
But thy lips, unweaned as yet,
Lisp, " 0, how can I forget ! "
Men and devils both contrive
Traps for catching girls alive ;
Eve was duped, and Helen kissed,
How, how can you resist ?
First be careful of your fan,
Trust it not to youth or man ;
Love has filled a pirate's sail
Often with its perfumed gale.
Mind your kerchief most of all,
Fingers touch when kerchiefs fall ;
A SONG OF OTHER DAYS.
47
Shorter ell than mercers clip
Is the space from hand to lip.
Trust not such as talk in tropes,
Full of pistols, daggers, ropes ;
All the hemp that Russia bears
Scarce would answer lovers' prayers ;
Never thread was spun so line,
Never spider stretched the line,
Would not hold the lovers true
That would really swing for you.
Fiercely some shall storm and swear,
Beating breasts in black despair ;
Others murmur with a sigh,
You must melt, or they will die ;
Painted words on empty lies,
Grubs with wings like butterflies ;
Let them die, and welcome, too ;
Pray what better could they do ?
Fare thee well, if years efface
From thy heart love's burning trace,
Keep, keep that hallowed seat
From the tread of vulgar feet ;
If the blue lips of the sea
"Wait with icy kiss for me,
Let not thine forget the vow,
Sealed how often, Love, as now.
A SONG OF OTHER DAYS.
As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet
Breathes soft the Alpine rose,
So, through life's desert springing sweet,
The flower of friendship grows ;
And as, where'er the roses grow,
Some rain or dew descends,
'T is nature's law that wine should flow
To wet the lips of friends.
Then once again, before we part,
My empty glass shall ring ;
And he that has the warmest heart
Shall loudest laugh and sing.
They say we were not born to eat ;
But gray-haired sages think
It means, Be moderate in your meat,
And partly live to drink ;
For baser tribes the rivers flow
That know not wine or song ;
Man wants but little drink below,
But wants that little strong.
Then once again, etc.
If one bright drop is like the gem
That decks a monarch's crown,
One goblet holds a diadem
Of rubies melted down !
A fig for Caesar's blazing brow,
But, like the Egyptian queen,
Bid each dissolving jewel glow
My thirsty lips between.
Then once again, etc.
The Grecian's mound, the Roman's urn,
Are silent when we call,
Yet still the purple grapes return
To cluster on the wall ;
It was a bright Immortal's head
They circled with the vine,
And o'er their best and bravest dead
They poured the dark-red wine.
Then once again, etc.
Methinks o'er every sparkling glass
Young Eros waves his wings,
And echoes o'er its dimples pass
From dead Anacreon's strings ;
And, tossing round its beaded brim
Their locks of floating gold,
With bacchant dance and choral hymn
Return the nymphs of old.
Then once again, etc.
A welcome then to joy and mirth,
From hearts as fresh as ours,
To scatter o'er the dust of earth
Their sweetly mingled flowers ;
'T is Wisdom's self the cup that fills
In spite of Folly's frown,
And Nature, from her vine-clad hills,
That rains her life-blood down !
48
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Then once again, before we part,
My empty glass shall ring ;
And he that has the warmest heart
Shall loudest laugh and sing.
SONG.
FOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH
LADIES WERE INVITED (NEW YORK
MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION,
NOV., 1842).
A HEALTH to dear woman ! She bids us
untwine,
From the cup it encircles, the fast-cling-
ing vine ;
But her cheek in its crystal with pleasure
will glow,
And mirror its bloom in the bright wave
below.
A health to sweet woman ! The days
are no more
"When she watched for her lord till the
revel was o'er,
And smoothed the white pillow, and
blushed when he came,
As she pressed her cold lips on his fore-
head of flame.
Alas for the loved one ! too spotless and
fair
The joys of his banqiiet to chasten and
share ;
Her eye lost its light that his goblet
might shine,
And the rose of her cheek was dissolved
in his wine.
Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows
in the rills,
As their ribbons of silver unwind from
the hills ;
They breathe not the mist of the baccha-
nal's dream,
But the lilies of innocence float on their
stream.
Then a health and a welcome to woman
once more !
She brings us a passport that laughs at
our door ;
It is written on crimson, its letters
are pearls,
It is countersigned Nature. So, room
for the Girls !
A SENTIMENT.
THE pledge of Friendship ! it is still
divine,
Though watery floods have quenched its
burning wine ;
Whatever vase the sacred drops may
hold,
The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten
gold,
Around its brim the hand of Nature
throws
A garland sweeter than the banquet's
rose.
Bright are the blushes of the vine-
wreathed bowl,
Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon's
soul,
But dearer memories gild the tasteless
wave
That fainting Sidney perished as he gave.
'Tis the heart's current lends the cup
its glow,
Whate'er the fountain whence the
draught may flow,
The diamond dew - drops sparkling
through the sand,
Scooped by the Arab in his sunburnt
hand,
Or the dark streamlet oozing from the
snow,
Where creep and crouch the shuddering
Esquimaux ;
Ay, in the stream that, ere again we
meet,
A RHYMED LESSON.
49
Shall burst the pavement, glistening at
our feet,
And, stealing silent from its leafy
hills,
Thread all our alleys with its thousand
rills,
In each pale draught if generous feeling
blend,
And o'er the goblet friend shall smile on
friend,
Even cold Cochituate every heart shall
warm,
And genial Nature still defy reform !
A RHYMED LESSON.l
(URANIA.)
YES, dear Enchantress, wandering
far and long,
In realms unperfumed by the breath of
song,
"Where flowers ill-flavored shed their
sweets around,
And bitterest roots invade the ungenial
ground,
Whose gems are crystals from the Epsom
mine,
Whose vineyards flow with antimonial
wine,
Whose gates admit no mirthful feature
in,
Save ^ one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic
grin, .
Whose pangs are real, not the woes of
rhyme
That blue-eyed misses warble out of
time ;
Truant, not recreant to thy sacred claim,
Older by reckoning, but in heart the
same,
i This poem was delivered before the Boston
Mercantile Library Association, October 14,
1846.
Freed for a moment from the chains of
toil,
I tread once more thy consecrated soil ;
Here at thy feet my old allegiance own,
Thy subject still, and loyal to thy
throne !
My dazzled glance explores the crowded
hall;
Alas, how vain to hope the smiles of all !
I know my audience. All the gay and
young
Love the light antics of a playful tongue ;
And these, remembering some expansive
line
My lips let loose among the nuts and
wine,
Are all impatience till the opening pun
Proclaims the witty shamfight is begun.
Two fifths at least, if not the total half,
Have come infuriate for an earthquake
laugh ;
I know full well what alderman has
tied
His red bandanna tight about his side ;
I see the mother, who, aware that
boys
Perform their laughter with superfluous
noise,
Beside her kerchief, brought an extra
one
To stop the explosions of her bursting
son ;
I know a tailor, once a friend of mine,
Expects great doings in the button
line ;
For mirth's concussions rip the outward
case,
And plant the stitches in a tenderer
place.
I know my audience ; these shall have
their due ;
A smile awaits them ere my song is
through !
50
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
I know myself. Not servile for ap-
plause,
My Muse permits no deprecating clause ;
Modest or vain, she will not be denied
One hold confession due to honest pride ;
And well she knows the drooping veil
of song
Shall save her boldness from the cavil-
ler's wrong.
Her sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid
imparts
To tell the secrets of our aching hearts ;
For this, a suppliant, captive, prostrate,
bound,
She kneels imploring at the feet of
sound ;
For this, convulsed in thought's mater-
nal pains,
She loads her arms with rhyme's re-
sounding chains ;
Faint though the music of her fetters
be,
It lends one charm ; her lips are ever
free !
Think not I come, in manhood's fiery
noon,
To steal his laurels from the stage buf-
foon ;
His sword of lath the harlequin may
wield ;
Behold the star upon my lifted shield !
Though the just critic pass my humble
name,
And sweeter lips have drained the cup
of fame,
While my gay stanza pleased the ban-
quet's lords,
The soul within was tuned to deeper
chords !
Say, shall my arms, in other conflicts
taught
To swing aloft the ponderous mace of
thought,
Lift, in obedience to a school-girl's law,
Mirth's tinsel wand or laughter's tick-
ling straw ?
Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling
spear
The pure, warm hearts that bid me wel-
come here ?
No ! while I wander through the land
of dreams,
To strive with great and play with tri-
fling themes,
Let some kind meaning fill the varied
line ;
You have your judgment ; will you
trust to mine ?
Between two breaths what crowded
mysteries lie,
The first short gasp, the last and long-
drawn sigh !
Like phantoms painted oil the magic
slide,
Forth from the darkness of the past we
glide,
As living shadows for a moment seen
In airy pageant on the eternal screen,
Traced by a ray from one unchanging
flame,
Then seek the dust and stillness whence
we came.
But whence and why, our trembling
souls inquire,
Caught these dim visions their awaken-
ing fire ?
who forgets when first the piercing
thought
Through childhood's musings found its
way unsought ?
1 AM ; I LIVE. The mystery and the
fear
When the dread question, WHAT HAS
BROUGHT ME HEIIE ?
Burst through life's twilight, as before
the sun
A EHYJIED LESSON.
51
Roll the deep thunders of the morning
gun !
Are angel faces, silent and serene,
Bent on the conflicts of this little scene,
Whose dream-like efforts, whose unreal
strife,
Are but the preludes to a larger life ?
Or does life's summer see the end of
all,
These leaves of being mouldering as they
fall,
As the old poet vaguely used to deem,
As WESLEY questioned in his youthful
dream ?
could such mockery reach our souls
indeed,
Give back the Pharaohs' or the Athe-
nian's creed ;
Better than this a Heaven of man's
device,
The Indian's sports, the Moslem's para-
dise !
Or is our being's only end and aim
To add new glories to our Maker's name,
As the poor insect, shrivelling in the
blaze,
Lends a faint sparkle to its streaming
rays ?
Does earth send upwards to the Eternal's
ear
The mingled discords of her jarring
sphere
To swell his anthem, while creation
rings
With notes of anguish from its shattered
strings ?
Is it for this the immortal Artist means
These conscious, throbbing, agonized
machines ?
Dark is the soul whose sullen creed
can bind
In chains like these the all-embracing
Mind ;
No ! two-faced bigot, thou dost ill re-
prove
The sensual, selfish, yet benignant Jove,
And praise a tyrant throned in lonely
pride,
Who loves himself, and cares for naught
beside ;
Who gave thee, summoned from pri-
meval night,
A thousand laws, and not a single
right,
A heart to feel, and quivering nerves to
thrill,
The sense of wrong, the death-defying
will ;
Who girt thy senses with this goodly
frame,
Its earthly glories and its orbs of flame,
Not for thyself, unworthy of a thought,
Poor helpless victim of a life unsought,
But all for him, unchanging and su-
preme,
The heartless centre of thy frozen
scheme !
Trust not the teacher with his lying
scroll,
Who tears the charter of thy shuddering
soul ;
The God of love, who gave the breath
that warms
All living dust in all its varied forms,
Asks not the tribute of a world like this
To fill the measure of his perfect bliss.
Though winged with life through all its
radiant shores,
Creation flowed with unexhausted stores
Cherub and seraph had not yet enjoyed ;
For this he called thee from the quick-
ening void !
Nor this alone ; a larger gift was thine,
A mightier purpose swelled his vast de-
sign ;
52
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Thought, conscience, will, to make
them all thine own,
He rent a pillar from the eternal throne !
Made in his image, thou must nobly
dare
The thorny crown of sovereignty to
share.
With eye uplifted, it is thine to view,
From thine own centre, Heaven's o'er-
arching blue ;
So round thy heart a beaming circle lies
No fiend can blot, no hypocrite disguise ;
From all its orbs one cheering voice is
heard,
Full to thine ear it bears the Father's
word,
Now, as in Eden where his first-born
trod:
" Seek thine own welfare, true to man
and God ! "
Think not too meanly of thy low es-
tate ;
Thou hast a choice ; to choose is to cre-
ate !
Remember whose the sacred lips that tell,
Angels approve thee when thy choice is
well ;
Remember, One, a judge of righteous
men,
Swore to spare Sodom if she held but
ten !
Use well the freedom which thy Master
gave,
(Think'st thou that Heaven can tolerate
a slave ?)
And He who made thee to be just and
true
Will bless thee, love thee, ay, respect
thee too !
Nature has placed thee on a change-
ful tide,
To breast its waves, but not without a
guide;
j Yet, as the needle will forget its aim,
Jarred by the fury of the electric flame,
As the true current it will falsely feel,
Warped from its axis by a freight of steel;
So will thy CONSCIENCE lose its balanced
truth,
If passion's lightning fall upon thy
youth ;
So the pure effluence quit its sacred
hold,
Girt round too deeply with magnetic
gold.
Go to yon tower, where busy science
plies
Her vast antennae, feeling through the
skies ;
That little vernier on whose slender lines
The midnight taper trembles as it shines,
A silent index, tracks the planets' march
In all their wanderings through the ethe-
real arch,
Tells through the mist where dazzled
Mercury burns,
And marks the spot where Uranus re-
turns.
So, till by wrong or negligence effaced,
The living index which thy Maker traced
Repeats the line each starry Virtue draws
Through the wide circuit of creation's
laws ;
Still tracks unchanged the everlasting
ray
Where the dark shadows of temptation
stray ;
But, once defaced, forgets the orbs of
light,
And leaves thee wandering o'er the ex-
panse of night.
" What is thy creed ? " a hundred lips
inquire ;
" Thou seekest God beneath what Chris-
tian spire ? "
Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies
Float upward on the smoke of sacrifice ;
A EHYMED LESSON.
53
When man's first incense rose above the
plain,
Of earth's two altars one was built by
Cain !
Uncursed by doubt, our earliest creed
we take ;
We love the precepts for the teacher's
sake ;
The simple lessons which the nursery
taught
Fell soft and stainless on the buds of
thought,
And the full blossom owes its fairest
hue
To those sweet tear-drops of affection's
dew.
Too oft the light that led our earlier
hours
Fades with the perfume of our cradle
flowers ;
The clear, cold question chills to frozen
doubt ;
Tired of beliefs, we dread to live with-
out ;
then, if Reason waver at thy side,
Let humbler Memory be thy gentle
guide ;
Go to thy birthplace, and, if faith was
there,
Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's
prayer !
Faith loves to lean on Time's destroy-
ing arm,
And age, like distance, lends a double
charm ;
In dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted
gloom,
What holy awe invests the saintly
tomb!
There pride will bow, and anxious care
expand,
And creeping avarice come with open
hand ;
The gay can weep, the impious can adore,
From morn's first glimmerings on the
chancel floor,
Till dying sunset sheds his crimson
stains
Through the faint halos of the irised
panes.
Yet there are graves, whose rudely
shapen sod
Bears the fresh footprints where the sex-
ton trod ;
Graves where the verdure has not dared
to shoot,
Where the chance wild-flower has not
fixed its root,
Whose slumbering tenants, dead without
a name,
The eternal record shall at length pro-
claim
Pure as the holiest in the long array
Of hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay !
Come, seek the air ; some pictures we
may gain
Whose passing shadows shall not be in
vain ;
Not from the scenes that crowd the
stranger's soil,
Not from our own amidst the stir of
toil,
But when the Sabbath brings its kind
release,
And Care lies slumbering on the lap of
Peace.
The air is hushed ; the street is holy
ground ;
Hark ! The sweet bells renew their wel-
come sound ;
As one by one awakes each silent tongue,
It tells* the turret whence its voice is
flung.
The Chapel, last of sublunary things
That stirs our echoes with the name of
Kings,
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
"Whose bell, just glistening from the font
and forge,
Rolled its proud requiem for the second
George,
Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang,
Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous
clang ;
The simpler pile, that, mindful of the
hour
When Howe's artillery shook its half-
built tower,
"Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do,
The iron breastpin which the "Rebels "
threw,
"Wakes the sharp echoes with the quiv-
ering thrill
Of keen vibrations, tremulous and
shrill ;
Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire,
Crash the vast cymbals from the South-
ern spire ;
The Giant, standing by the elm-clad
green,
His white lance lifted o'er the silent
scene,
Whirling in air his brazen goblet round,
Swings from its brim the swollen floods
of sound ;
While, sad with memories of the olden
time,
Throbs from his tower the Northern
Minstrel's chime,
Faint, single tones, that spell their an-
cient song,
But tears still follow as they breathe
along.
Child of the soil, whom fortune sends
to range
Where man and nature, faith and cus-
toms change,
Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone
Mourns on the winds that sigh in every
When Ceylon sweeps thee with her per-
fumed breeze
Through the warm billows of the Indian
seas ;
When ship and shadow blended both
in one
Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun,
From sparkling midnight to refulgent
noon
Thy canvas swelling with the still mon-
soon ;
When through thy shrouds the wild tor-
nado sings,
And thy poor seabird folds her tattered
wings,
Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal,
And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal !
Then, dim with grateful tears, in long
array
Rise the fair town, the island-studded
bay,
Home, with its smiling board, its cheer-
ing fire,
The half-choked welcome of the expect-
ing sire,
The mother's kiss, and, still if aught re-
main,
Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent
strain.
Ah, let the dreamer o'er the taffrail
lean
To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen ;
Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's
chills,
His heart lies warm among his triple
hills !
Turned from her path by this deceit-
ful gleam,
My wayward fancy half forgets her
theme ;
See through the streets that slumbered
in repose
The living current of devotion flows ;
Its varied forms in one harmonious band,
A RHYMED LESSON.
55
Age leading childhood by its dimpled
hand,
Want, in the robe whose faded edges
fall
To tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl,
And wealth, in silks that, fluttering to
appear,
Lift the deep borders of the proud cash-
See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn
and pale,
Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's
veil ;
Alone she wanders where with him she
trod,
No arm to stay her, but she leans on
God.
While other doublets deviate here and
there,
What secret handcuff binds that pretty
pair?
Compactest couple ! pressing side to
side,
Ah, the white bonnet that reveals the
bride !
By the white neckcloth, with its
straitened tie,
The sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking
eye,
Severe and smileless, he that runs may
read
The stern disciple of Geneva's creed ;
Decent and slow, behold his solemn
march ;
Silent he enters through yon crowded
arch.
A livelier bearing of the outward
man,
The light-hued gloves, the undevout
rattan,
Now smartly raised or half-profanely
twirled,
A bright, fresh twinkle from the week-
day world,
Tell their plain story ; yes, thine eyes
behold
A cheerful Christian from the liberal fold.
Down the chill street that curves in
gloomiest shade
What marks betray yon solitary maid ?
The cheek's red rose, that speaks of
balmier air ;
The Celtic hue that shades her braided
hair;
The gilded missal in her kerchief tied ;
Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side !
Sister in toil, though blanched by
colder skies,
That left their azure in her downcast
eyes,
See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient
child,
Scarce weaned from home, the nursling
of the wild,
Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon
shines,
And broad Penobscot dashes through
the pines.
Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers
hold
The unfailing hymn-book in its cambric
fold.
Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she
stands,
The seventh sweet morning folds her
weary hands ;
Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well
be sure
He who ordained the Sabbath loves the
poor !
This weekly picture faithful Memory
draws,
Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause ;
Faint is the glow such barren hopes can
lend,
And frail the line that asks no loftier
end.
56
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Trust me, kind listener, I will yet
beguile
Thy saddened features of the promised
sinile ;
This magic mantle thou must well
divide,
It has its sable and its ermine side ;
Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears,
Take thou in silence what I give in
tears.
Dear listening soul, this transitory
scene
Of murmuring stillness, busily serene,
This solemn pause, the breathing-space
of man,
The halt of toil's exhausted caravan,
Comes sweet with music to thy wearied
ear ;
Rise with its anthems to a holier sphere !
Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes
that guide
The lowliest brother straying from thy
side ;
If right, they bid thee tremble for thine
own,
If wrong, the verdict is for God alone !
What though the champions of thy
faith esteem
The sprinkled fountain or baptismal
stream ;
Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife
Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves
of life ?
Let my free soul, expanding as it can,
Leave to his scheme the thoughtful
Puritan ;
But Calvin's dogma shall my lips de-
ride ?
In that stern faith my angel Mary
died ;
Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save,
Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made
grave ?
True, the harsh founders of thy church
reviled
That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's
child ;
Must thou be raking in the crumbled
past
For racks and fagots in her teeth to
cast ?
See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile
The whitened skull of old Servetus
smile !
Round her young heart thy "Romish
Upas " threw
Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as
she grew ;
Thy sneering voice may call them
" Popish tricks,"
Her Latin prayers, her dangling cruci-
fix, -
But De Profundis blessed her father's
grave ;
That "idol" cross her dying mother
gave !
"What if some angel looks with equal
eyes
On her and thee, the simple and the
wise,
Writes each dark fault against thy
brighter creed,
And drops a tear with every foolish
bead !
Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's
reeking page ;
Blush for the wrongs that stain thy
happier age ;
Strive with the wanderer from the
better path,
Bearing thy message meekly, not in
wrath ;
A RHYMED LESSON.
57
Weep for the frail that err, the weak
that fall,
Have thine own faith, but hope and
pray for all !
Faith ; Conscience ; Love. A meaner
task remains,
And humbler thoughts must creep in
lowlier strains ;
Shalt thou be honest ? Ask the worldly
schools,
And all will tell thee knaves are busier
fools ;
Prudent ? Industrious ? Let not modern
pens
Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citi-
zens.
Be firm ! one constant element in luck
Is genuine, solid, old Teutonic pluck ;
See yon tall shaft ; it felt the earth-
quake's thrill,
Clung to its base, and greets the sun-
rise still.
Stick to your aim ; the mongrel's hold
will slip,
But only crowbars loose the bulldog's
grip;
Small as he looks, the jaw that never
yields
Drags down the bellowing monarch of
the fields !
Yet in opinions look not always back ;
Your wake is nothing, mind the coming
track ;
Leave what you 've done for what you
have to do ;
Don't be "consistent," but be simply
true.
Don't catch the fidgets ; you have
found your place
Just in the focus of a nervous race,
Fretful to change, and rabid to discuss,
Full of excitements, always in a fuss ;
Think of the patriarchs ; then compare
as men
These lean-cheeked maniacs of the
tongue and pen !
Run, if you like, but try to keep your
breath ;
Work like a man, but don't be worked
to death ;
And with new notions, let me change
the rule,
Don't strike the iron till it 's slightly
cool.
Choose well your set ; our feeble na-
ture seeks
The aid of clubs, the countenance of
cliques ;
And with this object settle first of all
Your weight of metal and your size of
ball.
Track not the steps of such as hold you
cheap,
Too mean to prize, though good enough
to keep ;
The "real, genuine, no-mistake Tom
Thumbs "
Are little people fed on great men's
crumbs.
Yet keep no followers of that hateful
brood
That basely mingles with its wholesome
food
The tumid reptile, which, the poet said,
Doth wear a precious jewel in his head.
. If the wild filly, "Progress," thou
wouldst ride,
Have young companions ever at thy
side ;
But, wouldst thou stride the stanch old
mare, " Success,"
Go with thine elders, though they please
thee less.
58
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Shun such as lounge through after-
noons and eves,
And on thy dial write, "Beware of
thieves ! "
Felon of minutes, never taught to feel
The worth of treasures which thy fingers
steal,
Pick my left pocket of its silver dime,
But spare the right, it holds my
golden time !
Does praise delight thee ? Choose
some ultra side ;
A sure old recipe, and often tried ;
Be its apostle, congressman, or bard,
Spokesman, or jokesman, only drive it
hard ;
But know the forfeit which thy choice
abides,
For on two wheels the poor reformer
rides,
One black with epithets the anti throws,
One white with flattery painted by the
pros.
Though books on MANNERS are not
out of print,
An honest tongue may drop a harmless
hint.
Stop not, unthinking, every friend
you meet,
To spin your wordy fabric in the street ;
While you are emptying your colloquial
pack,
The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his
back.
Nor cloud his features with the un-
welcome tale
Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale ;
Health is a subject for Jiis child, his
wife,
And the rude office that insures his life.
Look in his face, to meet thy neigh-
bor's soul,
Not on his garments, to detect a hole ;
"How to observe," is what thy pages
show,
Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Mar-
tineau !
0, what a precious book the one would
be
That taught observers what they 're not
to see !
I tell in verse, 't were better done
in prose,
One curious trick that everybody knows ;
Once form this habit, and it 's very
strange
How long it sticks, how hard it is to
change.
Two friendly people, both disposed to
smile,
Who meet, like others, every little
while,
Instead of passing with a pleasant bow,
And "How d'ye do?" or "How's
your uncle now ? "
Impelled by feelings in their nature kind,
But slightly weak, and somewhat unde-
fined,
Rush at each other, make a sudden
stand,
Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand ;
Each looks quite radiant, seems ex-
tremely struck,
Their meeting so was such a piece of
luck ;
Each thinks the other thinks he 's
greatly pleased
To screw the vice in which they both
are squeezed ;
So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or
snow,
Both bored to death, and both afraid to
go!
Your hat once lifted, do not hang
your fire,
Nor, like slow Ajax, fighting still, re-
tire ;
A RHYMED LESSON.
59
When your old castor on your crown
you clap,
Go off ; you 've mounted your percussion
cap.
Some words on LANGUAGE may be
well applied,
And take them kindly, though they
touch your pride ;
Words lead to things ; a scale is more
precise,
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing,
drinking, vice.
Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips
The native freedom of the Saxon lips ;
See the brown peasant of the plastic
South,
How all his passions play about his
mouth!
With us, the feature that transmits the
soul,
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole.
The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's
walk
Tie the small muscles when he strives to
talk ;
Not all the pumice of the polished town
Can smooth this roughness of the barn-
yard down ;
Eich, honored, titled, he betrays his race
By this one mark, he 's awkward in
the face ;
Nature's rude impress, long before he knew
The sunny street that holds the sifted few.
It can't be helped, though, if we 're
taken young,
We gain some freedom of the lips and
tongue ;
But school and college often tr} r in vain
To break the padlock of our boyhood's
chain :
One stubborn word will prove this axiom
true,
No quondam rustic can enunciate view.
A few brief stanzas may be well em-
ployed
To speak of errors we can all avoid.
Learning condemns beyond the reach
of hope
The careless lips that speak of soap for
soap;
Her edict exiles from her fair abode
The clownish voice that utters road for
road :
Less stern to him who calls his coat a
coat,
And steers his boat, believing it a
boat,
She pardoned one, our classic city's boast,
Who said at Cambridge, most instead of
most,
But knit her brows and stamped her
angry foot
To hear a Teacher call a root a root.
Once more ; speak clearly, if you speak
at all ;
Carve every word before you let it
fall ;
Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star,
Try over hard to roll the British R ;
Do put your accents in the proper spot ;
Don't, let me beg you, don't say
"How? "for "What?"
And, when you stick on conversation's
burrs,
Don't strew your pathway with those
dreadful urs.
From little matters let us pass to
less,
And lightly touch the mysteries of DRESS ;
The outward forms the inner man re-
veal,
We guess the pulp before we cut the
peel.
I leave the broadcloth, coats and
all the rest,
60
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
The dangerous waistcoat, called by cock-
neys "vest,"
The things named "pants" in certain
documents,
A word not made for gentlemen, but
"gents" ;
One single precept might the whole con-
dense :
Be sure your tailor is a man of sense ;
But add a little care, a decent pride,
And always err upon the sober side.
Three pairs of boots one pair of feet de-
mands,
If polished daily by the owner's hands ;
If the dark menial's visit save from
this,
Have twice the number, for he '11 some-
times miss.
One pair for critics of the nicer sex,
Close in the instep's clinging circum-
flex,
Long, narrow, light ; the Gallic boot of
love,
A kind of cross between a boot and
glove.
Compact, but easy, strong, substantial,
square,
Let native art compile the medium pair.
The third remains, and let your tasteful
skill
Here show some relics of affection still ;
Let no stiff cowhide, reeking from the
tan,
No rough caoutchouc, no deformed bro-
gan,
Disgrace the tapering outline of your
feet,
Though yellow torrents gurgle through
the street.
Wear seemly gloves ; not black, nor
yet too light,
And least of all the pair that once was
white ;
Let the dead party where you told your
loves
Bury in peace its dead bouquets and
gloves ;
Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids,
But be a parent, don't neglect your
kids.
Have a good hat ; the secret of your
looks
Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks ;
Virtue may flourish in an old cravat,
But man and nature scorn the shocking
hat.
Does beauty slight you from her gay
abodes ?
Like bright Apollo, you must take to
Rhoades,
Mount the new castor, ice itself will
melt ;
Boots, gloves, may fail ; the hat is al-
ways felt !
Be shy of breastpins ; plain, well-
ironed white,
With small pearl buttons, two of them
in sight,
Is always genuine, while your gems may
pass,
Though real diamonds, for ignoble glass ;
But spurn those paltry Cisatlantic lies,
That round his breast the shabby rustic
ties ;
Breathe not the name, profaned to hallow
things
The indignant laundress blushes when
she brings !
Our freeborn race, averse to every
check,
Has tossed the yoke of Europe from its
neck ;
From the green prairie to the sea-girt
town,
The whole wide nation turns its collars
down.
A RHYMED LESSON.
61
The stately neck is manhood's manli-
est part ;
It takes the life-blood freshest from the
heart ;
With short, curled ringlets close around
it spread,
How light and strong it lifts the Grecian
head!
Thine, fair Erechtheus of Minerva's
wall ;
Or thine, young athlete of the Louvre's
hall,
Smooth as the pillar flashing in the
sun
That filled the arena where thy wreaths
were won,
Firm as the band that clasps the antlered
spoil,
Strained in the winding anaconda's coil !
I spare the contrast ; it were only
kind
To be a little, nay, intensely blind :
Choose for yourself : I know it cuts your
I know the points will sometimes inter-
fere ;
I know that often, like the filial John,
"Whom sleep surprised with half his dra-
pery on,
You show your features to the astonished
town
With one side standing and the other
down ;
But, my friend ! my favorite fellow-
man !
If Nature made you on her modern
plan,
Sooner than wander with your windpipe
bare,
The fruit of Eden ripening in the air,
With that lean head-stalk, that protrud-
ing chin,
Wear standing collars, were they made
of tin !
And have a neck-cloth, by the throat
of Jove !
Cut from the funnel of a rusty stove !
The long-drawn lesson narrows to its
close,
Chill, slender, slow, the dwindled cur-
rent flows ;
Tired of the ripples on its feeble springs,
Once more the Muse unfolds her upward
wings.
Land of my birth, with this unhal-
lowed tongue,
Thy hopes, thy dangers, I perchance had
sung;
But who shall sing, in brutal disregard
Of all the essentials of the "native
bard " ?
Lake, sea, shore, prairie, forest, moun-
tain, fall,
His eye omnivorous must devour them
all;
The tallest summits and the broadest
tides
His foot must compass with its giant
strides,
Where Ocean thunders, where Missouri
rolls,
And tread at once the tropics and the
poles ;
His food all forms of earth, fire, water,
air,
His home. all space, his birthplace every-
where.
Some grave compatriot, having seen
perhaps
The pictured page that goes in Worces-
ter's Maps,
And read in earnest what was said in jest,
" Who drives fat oxen " please to add
the rest,
Sprung the odd notion that the poet's
dreams
62
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Grow in the ratio of his hills and streams ;
And hence insisted that the aforesaid
"bard,"
Pink of the future, fancy's pattern-
card,
The babe of nature in the "giant West,"
Must be of course her biggest and her
best.
when at length the expected bard
shall come,
Land of our pride, to strike thine echoes
dumb,
(And many a voice exclaims in prose
and rhyme,
It 's getting late, and he 's behind his
time,)
When all thy mountains clap their hands
in joy,
And all thy cataracts thunder, " That 's
the boy,"
Say if with him the reign of song shall
end,
And Heaven declare its final dividend ?
Be calm, dear brother ! whose impas-
sioned strain
Comes from an alley watered by a drain ;
The little Mincio, dribbling to the Po,
Beats all the epics of the Hoang Ho ;
If loved in earnest by the tuneful maid,
Don't mind their nonsense, never be
afraid !
The nurse of poets feeds her winged
brood
By common firesides, on familiar food ;
In a low hamlet, by a narrow stream,
Where bovine rustics used to doze and
dream,
She filled young William's fiery fancy full,
While old John Shakespeare talked of
beeves and wool !
No Alpine needle, with its climbing
spire,
Brings down for mortals the Promethean
fire;
If careless nature have forgot to frame
An altar worthy of the sacred flame.
Unblest by any save the goatherd's
lines,
Mont Blanc rose soaring through his
"sea of pines" ;
In vain the rivers from their ice-caves
flash ;
No hymn salutes them but the Ranz des
Vaches,
Till lazy Coleridge, by the morning's
light,
Gazed for a moment on the fields of
white,
And lo, the glaciers found at length a
tongue,
Mont Blanc was vocal, and Chamouni
sung !
Children of wealth or want, to each is
given
One spot of green, and all the blue of
heaven !
Enough, if these their outward shows
impart ;
The rest is thine, the scenery of the
heart.
If passion's hectic in thy stanzas glow,
Thy heart's best life-blood ebbing as
they flow ;
If with thy verse thy strength and bloom
distil,
Drained by the pulses of the fevered
thrill ;
If sound's sweet effluence polarize thy
brain,
And thoughts turn crystals in thy fluid
strain,
Nor rolling ocean, nor the prairie's
bloom,
Nor streaming cliffs, nor rayless cavern's
gloom,
A RHYMED LESSON.
63
Need'st thon, young poet, to inform thy
line ;
Thy own broad signet stamps thy song
divine !
Let others gaze where silvery streams
are rolled,
And chase the rainbow for its cup of
gold;
To thee all landscapes wear a heavenly
dye,
Changed in the glance of thy prismatic
eye ;
Nature evoked thee in sublimer throes,
For thee her inmost Arethusa flows,
The mighty mother's living depths are
stirred,
Thou art the starred Osiris of the herd !
A few brief lines ; they touch on
solemn chords,
And hearts may leap to hear their hon-
est words ;
Yet, ere the jarring bugle-blast is blown,
The softer lyre shall breathe its soothing
tone.
"New England ! proudly may thy
children claim
Their honored birthright by its hum-
blest name !
Cold are thy skies, but, ever fresh and
clear,
No rank malaria stains thine atmos-
phere ;
No fungous weeds invade thy scanty
soil,
Scarred by the ploughshares of un slum-
bering toil.
Long may the doctrines by thy sages
taught,
Raised from the quarries where their
sires have wrought,
Be like the granite of thy rock-ribbed
land,
As slow to rear, as obdurate to stand :
And as the ice, that leaves thy crystal
mine,
Chills the fierce alcohol in the Creole's
wine,
So may the doctrines of thy sober school
Keep the hot theories of thy neighbors
cool !
If ever, trampling on her ancient path,
Cankered by treachery, or inflamed by
wrath,
With smooth " Resolves," or with dis-
cordant cries,
The mad Briareus of disunion rise,
Chiefs of New England ! by your sires'
Dash the red torches of the rebel down !
Flood his black hearthstone till its
flames expire,
Though your old Sachem fanned his
council-fire !
But ' if at last her fading cycle
run
The tongue must forfeit what the arm
has won,
Then rise, wild Ocean ! roll thy surging
shock
Full on old Plymouth's desecrated rock I
Scale the proud shaft degenerate hands
have hewn,
Where bleeding Valor stained the flowers
of June !
Sweep in one tide her spires and turrets
down,
And howl her dirge above Monadnock's
crown !
List not the tale ; the Pilgrim's hal-
lowed shore,
Though strewn with weeds, is granite at
the core ;
rather trust that He who made her free
Will keep her true, as long as faith shall
be!
64
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Farewell ! yet lingering through the
destined hour,
Leave, sweet Enchantress, one memorial
flower !
An Angel, floating o'er the waste of
snow
That clad our Western desert, long ago,
(The same fair spirit, who, unseen by day,
Shone as a star along the Mayflower's
way,)
Sent, the first herald of the Heavenly
plan,
To choose on earth a resting-place for
man,
Tired with his flight along the unvaried
field,
Turned to soar upwards, when his glance
revealed
A calm, bright bay, enclosed in rocky
bounds,
And at its entrance stood three sister
mounds.
The Angel spake: "This threefold
hill shall be
The home of Arts, the nurse of Liberty !
One stately summit from its shaft shall
pour
Its deep-red blaze along the darkened
shore ;
Emblem of thoughts, that, kindling far
and wide,
In danger's night shall be a nation's
guide.
One swelling crest the citadel shall crown,
Its slanted bastions black with battle's
frown,
And bid the sons that tread its scowling
heights
Bare their strong arms for man and all
his rights !
One silent steep along the northern wave
Shall hold the patriarch's and the hero's
grave ;
When fades the torch, when o'er the
peaceful scene
The embattled fortress smiles in living
green,
The cross of Faith, the anchor staff of
Hope,
Shall stand eternal on its grassy slope ;
There through all time shall faithful
Memory tell,
' Here Virtue toiled, and Patriot Valor
fell;
Thy free, proud fathers slumber at thy
side ;
Live as they lived, or perish as they
AN AFTER-DINNER POEM.l
(TERPSICHORE.)
IN narrowest girdle, reluctant Muse,
In closest frock and Cinderella shoes,
Bound to the foot-lights for thy brief
display,
One zephyr step, and then dissolve away !
Short is the space that gods and men
can spare
To Song's twin brother when she is not
there.
Let others water every lusty line,
As Homer's heroes did their purple
wine ;
Pierian revellers ! Know in strains like
these
The native juice, the real honest
squeeze,
Strains that, diluted to the twentieth
power,
In yon grave temple might have filled
an hour.
i Read at the Annual Dinner of the * B K
Society, at Cambridge, August 24, 1843.
AN AFTER-DINNER POEM.
65
Small room for Fancy's many-chorded
lyre,
For Wit's bright rockets with their trains
of fire,
For Pathos, struggling vainly to surprise
The iron tutor's tear-denying eyes,
For Mirth, whose finger with delusive
wile
Turns the grim key of many a rusty
smile,
For Satire, emptying his corrosive flood
On hissing Folly's gas-exhaling brood,
The pun, the fun, the moral and the
joke,
The hit, the thrust, the pugilistic
poke,
Small space for these, so pressed by nig-
gard Time,
Like that false matron, known to nursery
rhyme,
Insidious Morey, scarce her tale begun,
Ere listening infants weep the story
done.
had we room to rip the mighty bags
That Time, the harlequin, has stuffed
with rags !
Grant us one moment to unloose the
strings,
While the old graybeard shuts his leather
wings.
But what a heap of motley trash appears
Crammed in the bundles of successive
years !
As the lost rustic on some festal day
Stares through the concourse in its vast
array,
Where in one cake a throng of faces
runs,
All stuck together like a sheet of
buns,
And throws the bait of some unheeded
name,
Or shoots a wink with most uncertain
aim,
So roams my vision, wandering over all,
And strives to choose, but knows not
where to fall.
Skins of flayed authors, husks of dead
reviews,
The turn-coat's clothes, the office-
seeker's shoes,
Scraps from cold feasts, where conversa-
tion runs
Through mouldy toasts to oxidated puns,
And grating songs a listening crowd en-
dures,
Rasped from the throats of bellowing
amateurs ;
Sermons, whose writers played such dan-
gerous tricks
Their own heresiarchs called them here-
tics
(Strange that one term such distant poles
should link,
The Priestleyan's copper and the Pusey-
an's zinc) ;
Poems that shuffle with superfluous legs
A blindfold minuet over addled eggs,
Where all the syllables that end in ed,
Like old dragoons, have cuts across the
head ;
Essays so dark Champollion might de-
spair
To guess what mummy of a thought was
there,
Where our poor English, striped with for-
eign phrase,
Looks like a Zebra in a parson's chaise ;
Lectures that cut our dinners down to
roots,
Or prove (by monkeys) men should stick
to fruits ;
Delusive error, as at trifling charge
Professor Gripes will certify at large ;
Mesmeric pamphlets, which to facts ap-
peal,
Each fact as slippery as a fresh-caught
eel ;
66
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
And figured heads, whose hieroglyphs
invite
To wandering knaves that discount fools
at sight ;
Such things as these, with heaps of un-
paid bills,
And candy puffs and homoeopathic pills,
And ancient bell-crowns with contracted
rim,
And bonnets hideous with expanded
brim,
And coats whose memory turns the sar-
tor pale,
Their sequels tapering like a lizard's
tail ;
How might we spread them to the smil-
ing day,
And toss them, fluttering like the new-
mown hay,
To laughter's light or sorrow's pitying
shower,
Were these brief minutes lengthened to
an hour.
The narrow moments fit like Sunday
shoes,
How vast the heap, how quickly must
we choose ;
A few small scraps from out his moun-
tain mass
We snatch in haste, and let the vagrant
pass.
This shrunken CRUST that Cerberus could
not bite,
Stamped (in one corner) "Pickwick copy-
right, "
Kneaded by youngsters, raised by flat-
tery's yeast,
Was once a loaf, and helped to make a
feast.
He for whose sake the glittering show
appears
Has sown the world with laughter and
with tears,
And they whose welcome wets the bump-
er's brirn
Have wit and wisdom, for they all
quote him.
So, many a tongue the evening hour pro-
longs
With spangled speeches, let alone the
songs,
Statesmen grow merry, lean attorneys
laugh,
And weak teetotals warm to half and
half,
And beardless Tullys, new to festive
scenes,
Cut their first crop of youth's precocious
greens,
And wits stand ready for impromptu
claps,
With loaded barrels and percussion caps,
And Pathos, cantering through the mi-
nor keys,
Waves all her onions to the trembling
breeze ;
While the great Feasted views with si-
lent glee
His scattered limbs in Yankee fricassee.
Sweet is the scene where genial friend-
ship plays
The pleasing game of interchanging
praise ;
Self-love, grimalkin of the human heart,
[s ever pliant to the master's art ;
Soothed with a word, she peacefully
withdraws
And sheathes in velvet her obnoxious
claws,
And thrills the hand that smooths her
glossy fur
With the light tremor of her grateful
pur.
But what sad music fills the quiet hall,
If on her back a feline rival fall ;
AN AFTER-DINNER POEM.
67
And 0, what noises shake the tranquil
house,
If old Self- interest cheats her of a mouse !
Thou, my country, hast thy foolish
ways,
Too apt to pur at every stranger's praise ;
But, if the stranger touch thy modes or
laws,
Off goes the velvet and out come the
claws !
And thou, Illustrious! but too poorly
paid
In toasts from Pickwick for thy great
crusade,
Though, while the echoes labored with
thy name,
The public trap denied thy little game,
Let other lips our jealous laws revile,
The marble Talfourd or the rude Car-
lyie, -
But on thy lids, which Heaven forbids
to close
Where'er the light of kindly nature glows,
Let not the dollars that a churl denies
Weigh like the shillings on a dead man's
eyes !
Or, if thou wilt, be more discreetly blind,
Nor ask to see all wide extremes com-
bined.
Not in our wastes the dainty blossoms
smile,
That crowd the gardens of thy scanty isle.
There white-cheeked Luxury weaves a
thousand charms ;
Here sun-browned Labor swings his
naked arms.
Long are the furrows he must trace be-
tween
The ocean's azure and the prairie's green ;
Full many a blank his destined realm
displays,
Yet see the promise of his riper days :
Far through yon depths the panting
engine moves,
His chariots ringing in their steel-shod
grooves ;
And Erie's naiad flings her diamond wave
O'er the wild sea-nyniph in her distant
cave !
While tasks like these employ his anx-
ious hours,
What if his cornfields are not edged
with flowers?
Though bright as silver the meridian
beams
Shine through the crystal of thine Eng-
lish streams,
Turbid and dark the mighty wave is
whirled
That drains our Andes and divides a
world !
But lo ! a PARCHMENT ! Surely it would
seem
The sculptured impress speaks of power
supreme ;
Some grave design the solemn page must
claim
That shows so broadly an emblazoned
name ;
A sovereign's promise ! Look, the lines
afford
All Honor gives when Caution asks his
word :
There sacred Faith has laid her snow-
white hands,
And awful Justice knit her iron bands ;
Yet every leaf is stained with treachery's
dye,
And every letter crusted with a lie.
Alas ! no treason has degraded yet
The Arab's salt, the Indian's calumet ;
A simple rite, that bears the wanderer's
pledge,
Blunts the keen shaft and turns the
dagger's edge ;
While jockeying senates stop to sign
and seal,
And freeborn statesmen legislate to steal.
68
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Kise, Europe, tottering with thine Atla;
load,
Turn thy proud eye to Freedom's bles
abode,
And round her forehead, wreathed with
heavenly flame,
Bind the dark garland of her daughter's
shame !
Ye ocean clouds, that wrap the angry
blast,
Coil her stained ensign round its haughty
mast,
Or tear the fold that wears so foul a scar,
And drive a bolt through every black-
ened star !
Once more, once only, we must stop
so soon,
What have we here ? A GERMAN-SIL-
VER SPOON ;
A cheap utensil, which we often see
Used by the dabblers in aesthetic tea,
Of slender fabric, somewhat light and
thin,
Made of mixed metal, chiefly lead and
tin;
The bowl is shallow, and the handle
small,
Marked in large letters with the name
JEAN PAUL.
Small as it is, its powers are passing
strange,
For all who use it show a wondrous
change ;
And first, a fact to make the barbers
stare,
It beats Macassar for the growth of hair ;
See those small youngsters whose ex-
pansive ears
Maternal kindness grazed with frequent
shears ;
Each bristling crop a dangling mass
becomes,
And all the spoonies turn to Absa-
loms !
Nor this alone its magic power displays,
It alters strangely all their works and
ways;
With uncouth words they tire their
tender lungs,
The same bald phrases on their hun-
dred tongues ;
"Ever" "The Ages" in their page ap-
pear,
"Alway" the bedlamite is called a
"Seer";
On every leaf the "earnest" sage may
scan,
Portentous bore! their "many-sided"
man,
A weak eclectic, groping vague and
dim,
Whose every angle is a half-starved
whim,
Blind as a mole and curious as a lynx,
Who rides a beetle, which he calls a
"Sphinx."
And what questions asked in club-
foot rhyme
Of Earth the tongueless ancl the deaf-
mute Time !
Here babbling " Insight " shouts in Na-
ture's ears
His last conundrum on the orbs and
spheres ;
There Self-inspection sucks its little
thumb,
With "Whence am I?" and "Where-
fore did I come ? "
Deluded infants ! will they ever know
Some doubts must darken o'er the world
below,
Though all the Platos of the nursery
trail
Their " clouds of glory " at the go-cart's
tail?
might these couplets their attention
claim,
["hat gain their author the Philistine's
AN AFTER-DINXER POEM.
69
(A stubborn race, that, spurning foreign
law,
"Was much belabored with an ass's jaw !)
Melodious Laura! From the sad re-
treats
That hold thee, smothered with excess
of sweets,
Shade of a shadow, spectre of a dream,
Glance thy wan eye across the Stygian
stream !
The slip-shod dreamer treads thy fra-
grant halls,
The sophist's cobwebs hang thy roseate
walls,
And o'er the crotchets of thy jingling
tunes
The bard of mystery scrawls his crooked
"runes."
Yes, thou art gone, with all the tuneful
hordes
That candied thoughts in amber-colored
words,
And in the precincts of thy late abodes
The clattering verse-wright hammers
Orphic odes.
Thou, soft as zephyr, wast content to
fly
On the gilt pinions of a balmy sigh ;
He, vast as Phcebus on his burning
wheels,
Would stride through ether at Orion's
heels ;
Thy emblem, Laura, was a perfume-jar,
And thine, young Orpheus, is a pewter
star;
The balance trembles, be its verdict
told
When the new jargon slumbers with the
old!
Cease, playful goddess ! From thine airy
bound
Drop like a feather softly to the ground ;
This light bolero grows a ticklish dance,
And there is mischief in thy kindling
glance.
To-morrow bids thee, with rebuking
frown,
Change thy gauze tunic for a home-made
gown,
Too blest by fortune, if the passing day
Adorn thy bosom with its frail bouquet,
But still happier if the next forgets
Thy daring steps and dangerous pirou-
ettes !
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
FROM "THE COLLEGIAN," 1830, ILLUSTRATED ANNUALS, ETC.
Nescit vox missa reverti. HORAT. Ars Poetica.
Ab iis quse non adjuvant quain mollissime oportet pedem referre. QUINTILIAN, L. VI. C. 4.
THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS.i
IT was not many centuries since,
When, gathered on the moonlit green,
Beneath the Tree of Liberty,
A ring of weeping sprites was seen.
The freshman's lamp had long been dim,
The voice of busy day was mute,
And tortured Melody had ceased
Her sufferings on the evening flute.
They met not as they once had met,
To laugh o'er many a jocund tale :
But every pulse was beating low,
And every cheek was cold and pale.
There rose a fair but faded one,
Who oft had cheered tfiem with her
song;
She waved a mutilated arm,
And silence held the listening throng.
"Sweet friends," the gentle nymph be-
gan,
"From opening bud to withering leaf,
One common lot has bound us all,
In every change of joy and grief.
i Written after a general pruning of the trees
around Harvard College.
"While all around has felt decay,
We rose in ever-living prime,
With broader shade and fresher green,
Beneath the crumbling step of Time.
"When often by our feet has past
Some biped, Nature's walking whim,
Say, have we trimmed one awkward
shape,
Or lopped away one crooked limb ?
"Go on, fair Science; soon to thee
Shall Nature yield her idle boast ;
Her vulgar fingers formed a tree,
But thou hast trained it to a post.
"Go, paint the biroh's silver rind,
And quilt the peach with softer down ;
Up with the willow's trailing threads,
Off with the sunflower's radiant crown !
"Go, plant the lily on the shore,
And set the rose among the waves,
And bid the tropic bud unbind
Its silken zone in arctic caves ;
" Bring bellows for the panting winds,
Hang up a lantern by the moon,
And give the nightingale a fife,
And lend the eagle a balloon !
72
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
" I cannot smile, the tide of scorn,
That rolled through every bleeding
vein,
Comes kindling fiercer as it flows
Back to its burning source again.
" Again in every quivering leaf
That moment's agony I feel,
When limbs, that spurned the northern
blast,
Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel.
"A curse upon the wretch who dared
To crop us with his felon saw !
May every fruit his lip shall taste
Lie like a bullet in his maw.
" In every julep that he drinks,
May gout, and bile, and headache be ;
And when he strives to calm his pain,
May colic mingle with his tea.
' ' May nightshade cluster round his path,
And thistles shoot, and brambles
cling ;
May blistering ivy scorch his veins,
And dogwood burn, and nettles sting.
"On him may never shadow fall,
When fever racks his throbbing brow,
And his last shilling buy a rope
To hang him on my highest bough !"
She spoke ; the morning's herald beam
Sprang from the bosom of the sea,
And every mangled sprite returned
In sadness to her wounded tree. 1
THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.
THERE was a sound of hurrying feet,
A tramp on echoing stairs,
1 A little poem, on a similar occasion, may
be found in the works of Swift, from which,
perhaps, the idea was borrowed ; although I
was as much surprised as amused to meet with
it some time after writing the preceding lines.
There was a rush along the aisles,
It was the hour of prayers.
And on, like Ocean's midnight wave,
The current rolled along,
When, suddenly, a stranger form
Was seen amidst the throng.
He was a dark and swarthy man,
That uninvited guest ;
A faded coat of bottle-green
W T as buttoned round his breast.
There was not one among them all
Could say from whence he came ;
Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man,
Could tell that stranger's name.
All silent as the sheeted dead,
In spite of sneer and frown,
Fast by a gray-haired senior's side
He sat him boldly down.
There was a look of horror flashed
From out the tutor's eyes ;
When all around him rose to pray,
The stranger did not rise !
A murmur broke along the crowd,
The prayer was at an end ;
With ringing heels and measured tread,
A hundred forms descend.
Through sounding aisle, o'er grating
stair, .
The long procession poured,
Till all were gathered on the seats
Around the Commons board.
That fearful stranger ! down he sat,
Unasked, yet undismayed ;
And on his lip a rising smile
Of scorn or pleasure played.
le took his hat and hung it up,
With slow but earnest air;
He stripped his coat from off his back,
And placed it on a chair.
THE TOADSTOOL.
73
Then from his nearest neighbor's side
A knife and plate he drew ;
And, reaching out his hand again,
He took his teacup too.
How fled the sugar from the bowl !
How sunk the azure cream !
They vanished like the shapes that float
Upon a summer's dream.
A long, long draught, an outstretched
hand,
And crackers, toast, and tea,
They faded from the stranger's touch,
Like dew upon the sea.
Then clouds were dark on many a brow,
Fear sat upon their souls,
And, in a bitter agony,
They clasped their buttered rolls.
A whisper trembled through, the
crowd,
Who could the stranger be ?
And some were silent, for they thought
A cannibal was he.
What if the creature should arise,
For he was stout and tall,
And swallow down a sophomore,
Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all !
All sullenly the stranger rose ;
They sat in mute despair ;
He took his hat from off" the peg,
His coat from off the chair.
Four freshmen fainted on the seat,
Six swooned upon the floor ;
Yet on the fearful being passed,
And shut the chapel door.
There is full many a starving man,
That walks in bottle green,
But never more that hungry one
In Commons-hall was seen.
Yet often at the sunset hour,
When tolls the evening bell,
The freshman lingers on the steps,
That frightful tale to telL
THE TOADSTOOL.
THERE 's a thing that grows by the
fainting flower,
And springs in the shade of the lady's
bower ;
The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale,
When they feel its breath in the sum-
mer gale,
And the tulip curls its leaves in pride,
And the blue-eyed violet starts aside ;
But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip
stare,
For what does the honest toadstool care ?
She does not glow in a painted vest,
And she never blooms on the maiden's
breast ;
But she comes, as the saintly sisters do,
In a modest suit of a Quaker hue.
And, when the stars in the evening skies
Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes,
The toad comes out from his hermit cell,
The tale of his faithful love to tell.
there is light in her lover's glance,
That flies to her heart like a silver lance ;
His breeches are made of spotted skin,
His jacket is tight, and his pumps are
thin ;
In a cloudless night you may hear his
song,
As its pensive melody floats along,
And, if you will look by the moonlight
fair,
The trembling form of the toad is there.
And he twines his arms round her slen-
der stem,
In the shade of her velvet diadem ;
74
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
But she turns away in her maiden shame,
And will not breathe on the kindling
flame;
He sings at her feet through the live-
long night,
And creeps to his cave at the break of
light ;
And whenever he conies to the air above,
His throat is swelling with baffled love.
THE SPECTRE PIG.
A BALLAD.
IT was the stalwart butcher man,
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle Pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.
And oh ! it was the gentle Pig
Lay stretched upon the ground,
And ah ! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found.
They took him then, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along ;
They put a stick between his lips,
And through his heels a thong ;
And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,
And, like a mighty pendulum,
All solemnly he swung !
Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
And think what thou hast done,
And read thy catechism well,
Thou bloody-minded one ;
For if his sprite should walk by night,
It better were for thee,
That thou wert mouldering in the
ground,
Or bleaching in the sea.
It was the savage butcher then,
That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath,
He did not care a pin.
It was the butcher's youngest son,
His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes ;
All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,
And, in his soft simplicity,
Out spoke the tender child :
" father, father, list to me ;
The Pig is deadly sick,
And men have hung him by his heels,
And fed him with a stick."
It was the bloody butcher then,
That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
And bid him not to cry ;
"0 Nathan, Nathan, what 's a Pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail ?
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail ! "
It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,
That sobbed as if her heart would break,
And tore her yellow hair ;
And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,
Fast fell the tear-drops big ;
"Ah ! woe is me ! Alas ! Alas !
The Pig ! The Pig ! The Pig ! "
Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.
TO A CAGED LION.
75
Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.
The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,
And softly over all the west
The shades of evening came
He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
Were busy with his dreams ;
Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
Wide yawned their mortal seams.
The clock struck twelve ; the Dead hath
heard ;
He opened both his eyes,
And sullenly he shook his tail
To lash \he feeding flies.
One quiver of the hempen cord,
One struggle and one bound,
With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
The Pig was on the ground !
And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended ;
And hooting owl, and hovering bat,
On midnight wing attended.
Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch,
And open swung the door,
And little mincing feet were heard
Pat, pat along the floor.
Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,
And two upon the bed ;
And they are breathing side by side,
The living and the dead !
"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher
man !
What makes thy cheek so pale ?
Take hold ! take hold ! thou dost not fear
To clasp a spectre's tail ? "
Untwisted every winding coil ;
The shuddering wretch took hold,
All like an icicle it seemed,
So tapering and so cold.
"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher
man ! "
He strives to loose his grasp,
But, faster than the clinging vine,
Those twining spirals clasp.
And open, open swung the door,
And, fleeter than the wind,
The shadowy spectre swept before,
The butcher trailed behind.
Fast fled the darkness of the night,
And morn rose faint and dim ;
They called full loud, they knocked full
long,
They did not waken him.
Straight, straight towards that oaken
beam,
A trampled pathway ran ;
A ghastly shape was swinging there,
It was the butcher man.
TO A CAGED LION.
POOR conquered monarch ! though that
haughty glance
Still speaks thy courage unsubdued
by time,
And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread
Lives the proud spirit of thy burning
clime ;
Fettered by things that shudder at thy
roar,
Torn from thy pathless wilds to pace
this narrow floor !
Thou wast the victor, and all nature
shrunk
Before the thunders of thine awful
wrath ;
76
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The steel-armed hunter viewed thee
from afar,
Fearless and trackless in thy lonely
path !
The famished tiger closed his flaming
eye,
And crouched and panted as thy step
went by !
Thou art the vanquished, and insulting
man
Bars thy broad bosom as a sparrow's
wing ;
His nerveless arms thine iron sinews
bind,
And lead in chains the desert's fallen
king;
Are these the beings that have dared to
twine
Their feeble threads around those limbs
of thine ?
So must it be ; the weaker, wiser race,
That wields the tempest and that rides
the sea,
Even in the stillness of thy solitude
Must teach the lesson of its power to
thee;
And thou, the terror of the trembling
wild,
Must bow thy savage strength, the mock-
ery of a child !
THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY.
THE sun stepped down from his golden
throne,
And lay in the silent sea,
And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,
For a sleepy thing was she ;
What is the Lily dreaming of ?
Why crisp the waters blue ?
See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid !
Her white leaves are glistening
through 1
The Rose is cooling his burning cheek
In the lap of the breathless tide ;
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,
That would lie by the Rose's side ;
He would love her better than all the rest,
And he would be fond and true ;
But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,
And looked at the sky so blue.
Remember, remember, thou silly one,
How fast will thy summer glide,
And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,
Or flourish a blooming bride ?
" the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,
And he lives on earth," said she ;
' * But the Star is fair and he lives in
the air,
And he shall my bridegroom be. "
But what if the stormy cloud should
come,
And ruffle the silver sea ?
Would he turn his eye from the distant
sky,
To smile on a thing like thee ?
no, fair Lily, he will not send
One ray from his far-off throne ;
The winds shall blow and the waves
shall flow,
And thou wilt be left alone.
There is not a leaf on the mountain-top
Nor a drop of evening dew,
Nor a golden sand on the sparkling
shore,
Nor a pearl in the waters blue,
That he has not cheered with his fickle
smile,
And warmed with his faithless
beam,
And will he be true to a pallid flower,
That floats on the quiet stream ?
Alas for the Lily ! she would not heed,
But turned to the skies afar,
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. A ROMAN AQUEDUCT. 77
And bared her breast to the trembling
ray
That shot from the rising star ;
The cloud came over the darkened sky,
And over the waters wide :
She looked in vain through the beating
rain,
And sank in the stormy tide.
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.
"A SPANISH GIRL IN REVERIE."
SHE twirled the string of golden beads,
That round her neck was hung,
My grandsire's gift ; the good old man
Loved girls when he was young ;
And, bending lightly o'er the cord,
And turning half away,
With something like a youthful sigh,
Thus spoke the maiden gray :
" "Well, one may trail her silken robe,
And bind her locks with pearls,
And one may wreathe the woodland rose
Among her floating curls ;
And one may tread the dewy grass,
And one the marble floor,
Nor half- hid bosom heave the less,
Nor broidered corset more !
' ' Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl
Was sitting in the shade,
There 's something brings her to my mind
In that young dreaming maid,
And in her hand she held a flower,
A flower, whose speaking hue
Said, in the language of the heart,
' Relieve the giver true. '
" And, as she looked upon its leaves,
The maiden made a vow
To wear it when the bridal wreath
Was woven for her brow ;
She watched the flower, as, day by day,
The leaflets curled and died ;
But he who gave it never came
To claim her for his bride.
" many a summer's morning glow
Has lent the rose its ray,
And many a winter's drifting snow
Has swept its bloom away ;
But she has kept that faithless pledge
To this, her winter hour,
And keeps it still, herself alone,
And wasted like the flower."
Her pale lip quivered, and the light
Gleamed in her moistening eyes ;
I asked her how she liked the tints
In those Castilian skies ?
" She thought them misty, 't was
perhaps
Because she stood too near " ;
She turned away, and as she turned
I saw her wipe a tear.
A ROMAN AQUEDUCT.
THE sun-browned girl, whose limbs re-
cline
When noon her languid hand has laid
Hot on the green flakes of the pine,
Beneath its narrow disk of shade ;
As, through the flickering noontide glare,
She gazes on the rainbow chain
Of arches, lifting once in air
The rivers of the Roman's plain ;
Say, does her wandering eye recall
The mountain-current's icy wave,
Or for the dead one tear let fall,
Whose founts are broken by their
grave ?
From stone to stone the ivy weaves
Her braided tracery's winding veil,
78
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
And lacing stalks and tangled leaves
Nod heavy in the drowsy gale.
And lightly floats the pendent vine,
That swings beneath her slender bow,
Arch answering arch, whose rounded
line
Seems mirrored in the wreath below.
How patient Nature smiles at Fame !
The weeds, that strewed the victor's
way,
Feed on his dust to shroud his name,
Green where his proudest towers decay.
See, through that channel, empty now,
The scanty rain its tribute pours,
Which cooled the lip and laved the brow
Of conquerors from a hundred shores.
Thus bending o'er the nation's bier,
Whose wants the captive earth sup-
plied,
The dew of Memory's passing tear
Falls on the arches of her pride !
FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE
JOURNAL.
SWEET Mary, I have never breathed
The love it were in vain to name ;
Though round my heart a serpent
wreathed,
I smiled, or strove to smile, the same.
Once more the pulse of Nature glows
With faster throb and fresher fire,
While music round her pathway flows,
Like echoes from a hidden lyre.
And is there none with me to share
The glories of the earth and sky ?
The eagle through the pathless air
Is followed by one burning eye.
Ah no ! the cradled flowers may wake,
Again may flow the frozen sea,
From every cloud a star may break,
There comes no second Spring to me.
Go, ere the painted toys of youth
Are crushed beneath the tread of years;
Ere visions have been chilled to truth,
And hopes are washed away in tears.
Go, for I will not bid thee weep,
Too soon my sorrows will be thine,
And evening's troubled air shall sweep
The incense from the broken shrine.
If Heaven can hear the dying tone
Of chords that soon will cease to thrill,
The prayer that Heaven has heard alone
May bless thee when those chords are
still.
LA GRISETTE.
AH Clemence ! when I saw thee last
Trip down the Rue de Seine,
And turning, when thy form had past,
I said, "We meet again,"
I dreamed not in that idle glance
Thy latest image came,
And only left to memory's trance
A shadow and a name.
The few strange words my lips had taught
Thy timid voice to speak,
Their gentler signs, which often brought
Fresh roses to thy cheek,
The trailing of thy long loose hair
Bent o'er my couch of pain,
All, all returned, more sweet, more fair ;
had we met again !
I walked where saint and virgin keep
The vigil lights of Heaven,
I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
And sins to be forgiven ;
OUE YANKEE GIRLS. L'lNCONNUE.
79
I watched where Genevieve was laid,
I knelt by Mary's shrine,
Beside me low, soft voices prayed ;
Alas ! but where was thine ?
And when the morning sun was bright,
When wind and wave were calm,
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,
The rose of Notre Dame,
I wandered through the haunts of men,
From Boulevard to Quai,
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
The Pantheon's shadow lay.
In vain, in vain ; we meet no more,
Nor dream what fates befall ;
And long upon the stranger's shore
My voice on thee may call,
When years have clothed the line in moss
That tells thy name and days,
And withered, on thy simple cross,
The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise !
OUR YANKEE GIRLS.
LET greener lands and bluer skies,
If such the wide earth shows,
With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes,
Match us the star and rose ;
The winds that lift the Georgian's veil,
Or wave Circassia's curls,
Waft to their shores the sultan's sail,
Who buys our Yankee girls ?
The gay grisette, whose fingers touch
Love's thousand chords so well ;
The dark Italian, loving much,
But more than one can tell ;
And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed
dame,
Who binds her brow with pearls ;
Ye who have seen them, can they shame
Our own sweet Yankee girls ?
And what if court or castle vaunt
Its children loftier born ?
Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt
Beside the golden corn ?
They ask not for the dainty toil
Of ribboned knights and earls,
The daughters of the virgin soil,
Our freeborn Yankee girls !
By every hill whose stately pines
Wave their dark arms above
The home where some fair being shines,
To warm the wilds with love,
From barest rock to bleakest shore
Where farthest sail unfurls,
That stars and stripes are streaming
o'er,
God bless our Yankee girls !
L'lNCONNUE.
Is thy name Mary, maiden fair ?
Such should, methinks, its music be ;
The sweetest name that mortals bear
Were best befitting thee ;
And she to whom it once was given,
Was half of earth and half of heaven.
[ hear thy voice, I see thy smile,
I look upon thy folded hair ;
Ah ! while we dream not they beguile,
Our hearts are in the snare ;
And she who chains a wild bird's wing
Must start not if her captive sing.
So, lady, take the leaf that falls,
To all but thee unseen, unknown ;
When evening shades thy silent walls,
Then read it all alone ;
in stillness read, in darkness seal,
Forget, despise, but not reveal !
80
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
STANZAS.
STRANGE ! that one lightly whispered
tone
Is far, far sweeter unto me,
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea ;
But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.
I look upon the fair blue skies,
And naught but empty air I see ;
But when I turn me to thine eyes,
It seemeth unto me
Ten thousand angels spread their wings
"Within those little azure rings.
The lily hath the softest leaf
That ever western breeze hath fanned,
But thou shalt have the tender flower,
So I may take thy hand ;
That little hand to me doth yield
More joy than all the broidered field.
lady ! there be many things
That seem right fair, below, above ;
But sure not one among them all
Is half so sweet as love ;
Let us not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars both in one.
LINES BY A CLERK.
OH ! I did love her dearly,
And gave her toys and rings,
And I thought she meant sincerely,
When she took my pretty things.
But her heart has grown as icy
As a fountain in the fall,
And her love, that was so spicy,
It did not last at all.
I gave her once a locket,
It was filled with my own hair,
And she put it in her pocket
With very special care.
But a jeweller has got it,
He offered it to me,
And another that is not it
Around her neck I see.
For my cooings and my billings
I do not now complain,
But my dollars and my shillings
Will never come again ;
They were earned with toil and sorrow,
But I never told her that,
And now I have to borrow,
And want another hat.
Think, think, thou cruel Emma,
When thou shalt hear my woe,
And know my sad dilemma,
That thou hast made it so.
See, see my beaver rusty,
Look, look upon this hole,
This coat is dim and dusty ;
let it rend thy soul i
Before the gates of fashion
1 daily bent my knee,
But I sought the shrine of passion,
And found my idol, thee.
Though never love intenser
Had bowed a. soul before it,
Thine eye was on the censer,
And not the hand that bore it.
THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE.
DEAREST, a look is but a ray
Reflected in a certain way ;
A word, whatever tone it wear,
Is but a trembling wave of air ;
A touch, obedience to a clause
In nature's pure material laws.
The very flowers that bend and meet,
In sweetening others, grow more sweet ;
THE POETS LOT. TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER.
81
The clouds by day, the stars "by night,
Inweave their floating locks of light ;
The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's
braid,
Is. but the embrace of sun and shade,
How few that love us have we found !
How wide the world that girds them
round !
Like mountain streams we meet and part,
Each living in the other's heart,
Our course unknown, our hope to be
Yet mingled in the distant sea.
But Ocean coils and heaves in vain,
Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain ;
And love and hope do but obey
Some cold, capricious planet's ray,
Which lights and leads the tide it charms
To Death's dark caves and icy arms.
Alas ! one narrow line is drawn,
That links our sunset with our dawn ;
In mist and shade life's morning rose,
And clouds are round it at its close ;
But ah ! no twilight beam ascends
To whisper where that evening ends.
Oh ! in the hour when I shall feel
Those shadows round my senses steal,
When gentle eyes are weeping o'er
The clay that feels their tears no more,
Then let thy spirit with me be,
Or some sweet angel, likest thee !
THE POET'S LOT.
WHAT is a poet's love ?
To write a girl a sonnet,
To get a ring, or some such thing,
And fustianize upon it.
What is a poet's fame ?
Sad hints about his reason,
And sadder praise from garreteers,
To be returned in season.
Where go the poet's lines ?
Answer, ye evening tapers !
Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,
Speak from your folded papers !
Child of the ploughshare, smile ;
Boy of the counter, grieve not,
Though muses round thy trundle-bed
Their broidered tissue weave not.
The poet's future holds
No civic wreath above him ;
Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise,
Nor wife nor child to love him.
Maid of the village inn,
Who workest woe on satin,
(The grass in black, the graves in green,
The epitaph in Latin,)
Trust not to them who say,
In stanzas, they adore thee ;
rather sleep in churchyard clay,
With urn and cherub o'er thee !
TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER.
WAN-VISAGED thing ! thy virgin leaf
To me looks more than deadly pale,
Unknowing what may stain thee yet,
A poem or a tale.
Who can thy unborn meaning scan ?
Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now ?
No, seek to trace the fate of man
Writ on his infant brow.
Love may light on thy snowy cheek,
And shake his Eden-breathing plumes ;
Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,
Or Angelina blooms.
82
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Satire may lift his bearded lance,
Forestalling Time's slow-moving
scythe,
And, scattered on thy little field,
Disjointed bards may writhe.
Perchance a vision of the night,
Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,
Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along,
Or skeleton may grin !
If it should be in pensive hour
Some sorrow-moving theme I try,
Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall,
For all I doom to die !
But if in merry mood I touch
Thy leaves, then shall the sight of
thee
Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips
As ripples on the sea.
The Weekly press shall gladly stoop
To bind thee up among its sheaves ;
The Daily steal thy shining ore,
To gild its leaden leaves.
Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst
speak,
Till distant shores shall hear the
sound ;
Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe
Fresh life on all around.
Thou art the arena of the wise,
The noiseless battle-ground of fame ;
The sky where halos may be wreathed
Around the humblest name.
Take, then, this treasure to thy trust,
To win some idle reader's smile,
Then fade and moulder in the dust,
Or swell some bonfire's pile.
TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLE-
MAN."
IN THE ATHENE UM GALLERY.
IT may be so, perhaps thou hast
A warm and loving heart ;
I will not blame thee for thy face,
Poor devil as thou art.
That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose,
Unsightly though it be,
In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
It may be much to thee.
Those eyes, among thine elder friends
Perhaps they pass for blue,
No matter, if a man can see,
What more have eyes to do ?
Thy mouth, that fissure in thy face,
By something like a chin,
May be a very useful place
To put thy victual in.
I know thou hast a wife at home,
I know thou hast a child,
By that subdued, domestic smile
Upon thy features mild.
That wife sits fearless by thy side,
That cherub on thy knee ;
They do not shudder at thy looks,
They do not shrink from thee.
Above thy mantel is a hook,
A portrait once was there ;
It was thine only ornament,
Alas ! that hook is bare.
She begged thee not to let it go,
She begged thee all in vain ;
She wept, and breathed a trembling
prayer
To meet it safe again.
THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.
83
It was a bitter sight to see
That picture torn away ;
It was a solemn thought to think
What all her friends would say !
And often in her calmer hours,
And in her happy dreams,
Upon its long-deserted hook
The absent portrait seems.
Thy wretched infant turns his head
In melancholy wise,
And looks to meet the placid stare
Of those unbending eyes.
I never saw thee, lovely one,
Perchance I never may ;
It is not often that we cross
Such people in our way ;
But if we meet in distant years,
Or on some foreign shore,
Sure I can take my Bible oath,
I 've seen that face before.
THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.
IT was a tall young oysterman lived by
the river-side,
His shop was just upon the bank, his
boat was on the tide ;
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so
straight and slim,
Lived over on the other bank, right
opposite to him.
It was the pensive oysterman that saw
a lovely maid,
Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in
the shade ;
He saw her wave her handkerchief, as
much as if to say,
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman,
and all the folks away."
Then up arose the oysterman, and to
himself said he,
"I guess I '11 leave the skiff at home,
for fear that folks should see ;
I read it in the story-book, that, for to
kiss his dear,
Leander swam the Hellespont, and I
will swim this here."
And he has leaped into the waves, and
crossed the shining stream,
And he has clambered up the bank, all
in the moonlight gleam ;
there were kisses sweet as dew, and
words as soft as rain,
But they have heard her father's step,
and in he leaps again !
Out spoke the ancient fisherman, "
what was that, my daughter?"
"'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I
threw into the water."
"And what is that, pray tell me, love,
that paddles off so fast ?"
" It 's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's
been a swimming past."
Out spoke the ancient fisherman,
"Now bring me my harpoon!
1 '11 get into my fishing-boat, and fix
the fellow soon."
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls
a snow-white lamb,
Her hair drooped round her pallid
cheeks, like seaweed on a clam.
Alas for those two loving ones ! she
waked not from her swound,
And he was taken with the cramp, and
in the waves was drowned ;
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in
pity pf their woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for
mermaids down below.
84
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
A NOONTIDE LYRIC.
THE dinner-bell, the dinner-bell
Is ringing loud and clear ;
Through hill and plain, through street
and lane,
It echoes far and near ;
From curtained hall and whitewashed
stall,
Wherever men can hide,
Like bursting waves from ocean caves,
They float upon the tide.
I smell the smell of roasted meat !
I hear the hissing fry !
The beggars know where they can go,
But where, where shall I ?
At twelve o'clock men took my hand,
At two they only stare,
And eye me with a fearful look,
As if I were a bear !
The poet lays his laurels down,
And hastens to his greens ;
The happy tailor quits his goose,
To riot on his beans ;
The weary cobbler snaps his thread,
The printer leaves his pi ;
His very devil hath a home,
But what, what have I ?
Methinks I hear an angel voice,
That softly seems to say :
" Pale stranger, all may yet be well,
Then wipe thy tears away ;
Erect thy head, and cock thy hat,
And follow me afar,
And thou shalt have a jolly meal,
And charge it at the bar."
I hear the voice ! I go ! I go !
Prepare your meat and wine !
They little heed their future need,
Who pay not when they dine.
Give me to-day the rosy bowl,
Give me one golden dream,
To-morrow kick away the stool,
And dangle from the beam !
THE HOT SEASON.
THE folks, that on the first of May
Wore winter coats and hose,
Began to say, the first of June,
" Good Lord ! how hot it grows ! "
At last two Fahrenheits blew up,
And killed two children small,
And one barometer shot dead
A tutor with its ball !
Now all day long the locusts sang
Among the leafless trees ;
Three new hotels warped inside out,
The pumps could only wheeze ;
And ripe old wine, that twenty years
Had cobwebbed o'er in vain,
Came spouting through the rotten corks,
Like Joly's best Champagne !
The Worcester locomotives did
Their trip in half an hour ;
The Lowell cars ran forty miles
Before they checked the power ;
Roll brimstone soon became a drug,
And loco-focos fell ;
All asked for ice, but everywhere
Saltpetre was to sell.
Plump men of mornings ordered tights,
But, ere the scorching noons,
Their candle-moulds had grown as loose
As Cossack pantaloons !
The dogs ran mad, men could not try
If water they would choose ;
A horse fell dead, he only left
Four red-hot, rusty shoes !
But soon the people could not bear
The slightest hint of fire ;
A PORTRAIT. AN EVENING THOUGHT.
85
Allusions to caloric drew
A flood of savage ire ;
The leaves on heat were all torn out
From every book at school,
And many blackguards kicked and
caned,
Because they said, " Keep cool ! "
The gas-light companies were mobbed,
The bakers all were shot,
The penny press began to talk
Of Lynching Doctor Nott ;
And all about the warehouse steps
Were angry men in droves,
Crashing and splintering through the
doors
To smash the patent stoves !
The abolition men and maids
Were tanned to such a hue,
You scarce could tell them from their
friends,
Unless their eyes were blue ;
And, when I left, society
Had burst its ancient guards,
And Brattle Street and Temple Place
Were interchanging cards !
A PORTRAIT.
A STILL sweet, placid, moonlight face,
And slightly nonchalant,
Which seems to claim a middle place
Between one's love and aunt,
Where childhood's star has left a ray
In woman's sunniest sky,
As morning dew and blushing day
On fruit and blossom lie.
And yet, and yet I cannot love
Those lovely lines on steel ;
They beam too much of heaven above,
Earth's darker shades to feel ;
Perchance some early weeds of care
Around my heart have grown,
And brows unfurrowed seem not fair,
Because they mock my own.
Alas ! when Eden's gates were sealed,
How oft some sheltered flower
Breathed o'er the wanderers of the
field,
Like their own bridal bower ;
Yet, saddened by its loveliness,
And humbled by its pride,
Earth's fairest child they could not
bless,
It mocked them when they sighed.
AN EVENING THOUGHT.
WRITTEN AT SEA.
IF sometimes in the dark blue eye,
Or in the deep red wine,
Or soothed by gentlest melody,
Still warms this heart of mine,
Yet something colder in the blood,
And calmer in the brain,
Have whispered that my youth's bright
flood
Ebbs, not to flow again.
If by Helvetia's azure lake,
Or Arno's yellow stream,
Each star of memory could awake,
As in my first young dream,
I know that when mine eye shall greet
The hillsides bleak and bare,
That gird my home, it will not meet
My childhood's sunsets there.
when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss
Burned on my boyish brow,
Was that young forehead worn as
this?
Was that flushed cheek as now ?
86
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Were that wild pulse and throbbing
heart
Like these, which vainly strive,
In thankless strains of soulless art,
To dream themselves alive ?
Alas ! the morning dew is gone,
Gone ere the full of day ;
Life's iron fetter still is on,
Its wreaths all torn away ;
Happy if still some casual hour
Can warm the fading shrine,
Too soon to chill beyond the power
Of love, or song, or wine !
: THE WASP AND THE HORNET.
THE two proud sisters of the sea,
In glory and in doom !
Well may the eternal waters be
Their broad, unsculptured tomb !
The wind that rings along the wave,
The clear, unshadowed sun,
Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave,
Whose last green wreath is won !
No stranger-hand their banners furled,
No victor's shout they heard ;
Unseen, above them ocean curled,
Save by his own pale bird ;
The gnashing billows heaved and fell ;
Wild shrieked the midnight gale ;
Far, far beneath the morning swell
Were pennon, spar, and sail.
The land of Freedom ! Sea and shore
Are guarded now, as when
Her ebbing waves to victory bore
Fair barks and gallant men ;
many a ship of prouder name
May wave her starry fold,
Nor trail, with deeper light of fame,
The paths they swept of old !
"QUI VIVE."
" Qui vive 1 " The sentry's musket
rings,
The channelled bayonet gleams ;
High o'er him, like a raven's wings
The broad tricolored banner flings
Its shadow, rustling as it swings
Pale in the moonlight beams ;
Pass on ! while steel-clad sentries keep
Their vigil o'er the monarch's sleep,
Thy bare, unguarded breast
Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone
That girds yon sceptred trembler's
throne ;
Pass on, and take thy rest !
" Qui vive ! " How oft the midnight
air
That startling cry has borne !
How oft the evening breeze has fanned
The banner of this haughty land,
O'er mountain snow arid desert sand,
Ere yet its folds were torn !
Through Jena's carnage flying red,
Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead,
Or curling on the towers
Where Austria's eagle quivers yet,
And suns the ruffled plumage, wet
With battle's crimson showers !
" Qui vive/" And is the sentry's
cry,
The sleepless soldier's hand,
Are these the painted folds that fly
And lift their emblems, printed high
On morning mist and sunset sky
The guardians of a land ?
No ! If the patriot's pulses sleep,
How vain the watch that hirelings
keep,
The idle flag that waves,
When Conquest, with his iron heel,
Treads down the standards and the steel
That belt the soil of slaves !
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
THE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds
Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray;
Song is thin air ; our hearts' exulting play
Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds,
Following the mighty van that Freedom leads,
Her*glorious standard flaming to the day!
The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds
Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay.
Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better worth
Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb.
Hark! 'tis the loud reverberating drum
Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North :
The myriad-handed Future stretches forth
Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come, we come !
Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these
Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams,
We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams,
And nursed our fancies in forgetful ease.
It matters little if they pall or please,
Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams
Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems
Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees.
Yet, in some lull of passion, when at last
These calm revolving moons that come and go
Turning our months to years, they creep so slow
Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past
May flutter to thee through these leaflets, cast
On the wild winds that all around us blow.
MAY 1, 1861.
TO
THE MOST INDULGENT OF READER^,
THE KINDEST OF CRITICS,
MY BELOVED MOTHER,
ALL THAT IS LEAST UNWORTHY OF HER
IN THIS VOLUME
BY HER AFFECTIONATE SON.
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
I. -1849-1856.
AGNES.
PART FIRST.
THE KNIGHT.
THE tale I tell is gospel true,
As all the bookmen know,
And pilgrims who have strayed to view
The wrecks still left to show.
The old, old story, fair, and young,
And fond, and not too wise,
That matrons tell, with sharpened
tongue,
To maids with downcast eyes.
Ah ! maidens err and matrons warn
Beneath the coldest sky ;
Love lurks amid the tasselled corn
As in the bearded rye !
But who would dream our sober sires
Had learned the old world's ways,
And warmed their hearths with lawless
fires
In Shirley's homespun days ?
'T is like some poet's pictured trance
His idle rhymes recite,
This old New-Englaml-bojn romance
Of Agnes and the Knight ;
Yet, known to all the country round,
Their home is standing still,
Between Wachuset's lonely mound
And Shawmut's threefold hill.
One hour we rumble on the rail,
One half-hour guide the rein,
We reach at last, o'er hill and dale,
The village on the plain.
With blackening wall and mossy roof,
With stained and warping floor,
A stately mansion stands aloof
And bars its haughty door.
This lowlier portal may be tried,
That breaks the gable wall ;
And lo. ! with arches opening wide,
Sir Harry Frankland's hall !
'T was in the second George's day
They sought the forest shade,
The knotted trunks they cleared away,
The massive beams they laid,
They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall,
They smoothed the terraced ground,
They reared the marble-pillared wall
That fenced the mansion round.
Far stretched beyond the village bound
The Master's broad domain ;
90
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
With page and valet, horse and hound,
He kept a goodly train.
And, all the midland county through,
The ploughman stopped to gaze
Whene'er his chariot swept in view
Behind the shining bays,
With mute obeisance, grave and slow,
Repaid by nod polite,
For such the way with high and low
Till after Concord fight.
Nor less to courtly circles known
That graced the three-hilled town
With far-off splendors of the Throne,
And glimmerings from the Crown ;
Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state
For Shirley over sea ;
Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved
of late
The King Street mob's decree ;
And judges grave, and colonels grand,
Fair dames and stately men,
The mighty people of the land,
The " World " of there and then.
'T was strange no Chloe's "beauteous
Form,"
And " Eyes' ccelestial Blew,"
This Strephon of the West could warm,
No Nymph his Heart subdue !
Perchance he wooed as gallants use,
Whom fleeting loves enchain,
But still unfettered, free to choose,
Would brook no bridle-rein.
He saw the fairest of the fair,
But smiled alike on all ;
No band his roving foot might snare,
No ring his hand enthrall.
PART SECOND.
THE MAIDEN.
WHY seeks the knight that rocky cape
Beyond the Bay of Lynn ?
What chance his wayward course may
To reach its village inn ?
No story tells ; whate'er we guess,
The past lies deaf and still,
But Fate, who rules to blight or bless,
Can lead us where she will.
Make way ! Sir Harry's coach and four,
And liveried grooms that ride !
They cross the ferry, touch the shore
On Winnisimmet's side.
They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach,
The level marsh they pass,
Where miles on miles the desert reach
Is rough with bitter grass.
The shining horses foam and pant,
And now the smells begin
Of fishy Swampscot, salt Nahant,
And leather-scented Lynn.
Next, on their left, the slender spires,
And glittering vanes, that crown,
The home of Salem's frugal sires,
The old, witch-haunted town.
So onward, o'er the rugged way
That runs through rocks and sand,
Showered by the tempest-driven spray,
From bays on either hand,
That shut between their outstretched
arms
The crews of Marblehead,
The lords of ocean's watery farms,
Who plough the waves for bread.
AGNES.
91
At last the ancient inn appears,
The spreading elm below,
Whose flapping sign these fifty years
Has seesawed to and fro.
How fair the azure fields in sight
Before the low-browed inn !
The tumbling billows fringe with light
The crescent shore of Lynn ;
Nahant thrusts outward through the
waves
Her arm of yellow sand,
And breaks the roaring surge that braves
The gauntlet on her hand ;
With eddying whirl the waters lock
Yon treeless mound forlorn,
The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-
rock,
That fronts the Spouting Horn ;
Then free the white-sailed shallops glide,
And wide the ocean smiles,
Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide
The two bare Misery Isles.
The master's silent signal stays
The wearied cavalcade ;
The coachman reins his smoking bays
Beneath the elm -tree's shade.
A gathering on the village green !
The cocked-hats crowd to see,
On legs in ancient velveteen,
With buckles at the knee.
A clustering round the tavern -door
Of square-toed village boys,
Still wearing, as their grandsires wore,
The old-world corduroys !
A scampering at the " Fountain " inn,
A rush of great and small,
With hurrying servants' mingled din
And screaming matron's call !
Poor Agnes ! with her work half done
They caught her unaware ;
As, humbly, like a praying nun,
She knelt upon the stair ;
Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien
She knelt, but not to pray,
Her little hands must keep them clean,
And wash their stains away.
A foot, an ankle, bare and white,
Her girlish shapes betrayed,
"Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke
the Knight ;
" Look up, my beauteous Maid !"
She turned, a reddening rose in bud,
Its calyx half withdrawn,
Her cheek on fire with damasked blood
Of girlhood's glowing dawn !
He searched her features through and
through,
As royal lovers look
On lowly maidens, when they woo
Without the ring and book.
" Come hither, Fair one ! Here, my
Sweet !
Nay, prithee, look not down !
Take this to shoe those little feet,"
He tossed a silver crown.
A sudden paleness struck her brow,
A swifter flush succeeds ;
It burns her cheek ; it kindles now
Beneath her golden beads.
She flitted, but the glittering eye
Still sought the lovely face.
Who was she ? What, and whence ? and
why
Doomed to such menial place ?
A skipper's daughter, so they said,
Left orphan by the gale
92
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
That cost the fleet of Marblehead
And Gloucester thirty sail.
Ah ! many a lonely home is found
Along the Essex shore,
That cheered its goodman outward
bound,
And sees his face no more !
"Not so," the matron whispered,
"sure
No orphan girl is she,
The Surraige folk are deadly poor
Since Edward left the sea,
"And Mary, with her growing brood,
Has work enough to do
To find the children clothes and food
With Thomas, John, and Hugh.
" This girl of Mary's, growing tall,
(Just turned her sixteenth year,)
To earn her bread and help them all,
Would work as housemaid here."
So Agnes, with her golden beads,
And naught beside as dower,
Grew at the wayside with the weeds,
Herself a garden-flower.
'T was strange, 't was sad, so fresh, so
fair!
Thus Pity's voice began.
Such grace ! an angel's shape and air !
The half-heard whisper ran.
For eyes could see in George's time,
As now in later days,
And lips could shape, in prose and
rhyme,
The honeyed breath of praise.
No time to woo ! The train must go
Long ere the sun is down,
To reach, before the night-winds blow,
The many-steepled town.
'T is midnight, street and square are
still ;
Dark roll the whispering waves
That lap the piers beneath the hill
Ridged thick with ancient graves.
Ah, gentle sleep ! thy hand will smooth
The weary couch of pain,
When all thy poppies fail to soothe
The lover's throbbing brain !
'T is morn, the orange-mantled sun
Breaks through the fading gray,
And long and loud the Castle gun
Peals o'er the glistening bay.
"Thank God 'tis day !" With eager
eye
He hails the morning's shine :
" If art can win, or gold can buy,
The maiden shall be mine ! "
PART THIRD.
THE CONQUEST.
"Wno saw this hussy when she came?
What is the wench, and who ?"
They whisper. * ' Agnes, is her name ?
Pray what has she to do ? "
The housemaids parley at the gate,
The scullions on the stair,
And in the footmen's grave debate
The butler deigns to share.
Black Dinah, stolen when a child,
And sold on Boston pier,
Grown up in service, petted, spoiled,
Speaks in the coachman's ear :
"What, all this household at his will ?
And all are yet too few ?
More servants, and more servants still,
This pert young madam too ! "
AGNES.
93
" ServaM! fine servant !" laughed aloud
The man of coach and steeds ;
" She looks too fair, she steps too proud,
This girl with golden beads !
" I tell you, you may fret and frown,
And call her what you choose,
You '11 find my Lady in her gown,
Your Mistress in her shoes ! "
Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame,
God grant you never know
The little whisper, loud with shame,
That makes the world your foe !
Why tell the lordly flatterer's art,
That won the maiden's ear,
The fluttering of the frightened heart,
The blush, the smile, the tear ?
Alas ! it were the saddening tale
That every language knows,
The wooing wind, the yielding sail,
The sunbeam and the rose.
And now the gown of sober stuff
Has changed to fair brocade,
"With broidered hem, and hanging cuff,
And flower of silken braid ;
And clasped around her blanching wrist
A jewelled bracelet shines,
Her flowing tresses' massive twist
A glittering net confines ;
And mingling with their truant wave
A fretted chain is hung ;
But ah ! the gift her mother gave,
Its beads are all unstrung !
Her place is at the master's board,
Where none disputes her claim ;
She walks beside the mansion's lord,
His bride in all but name.
The busy tongues have ceased to talk,
Or speak in softened tone,
So gracious in her daily walk
The angel light has shown.
No want that kindness may relieve
Assails her heart in vain,
The lifting of a ragged sleeve
Will check her palfrey's rein.
A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace
In every movement shown,
Reveal her moulded for the place
She may not call her own.
And, save that on her youthful brow
There broods a shadowy care,
No matron sealed with holy vow
In all the land so fair !
PART FOURTH.
THE RESCUE.
A SHIP comes foaming up the bay,
Along the pier she glides ;
Before her furrow melts away,
A courier mounts and rides.
"Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the let-
ters bear ;
"Sir Harry Frankland, These."
Sad news to tell the loving pair !
The knight must cross the seas.
" Alas ! we part ! " the lips that spoke
Lost all their rosy red,
As when a crystal cup is broke,
And all its wine is shed.
"Nay, droop not thus, where'er," he
cried,
"I go by land or sea,
My love, my life, my joy, \my pride,
Thy place is still by me 1"
94
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Through town and city, far and wide,
Their wandering feet have strayed,
From Alpine lake to ocean tide,
And cold Sierra's shade.
At length they see the waters gleam
Amid the fragrant bowers
"Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream
Her belt of ancient towers.
Red is the orange on its bough,
To-morrow's sun shall fling
O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow
The flush of April's wing.
The streets are loud with noisy mirth,
They dance on every green ;
The morning's dial marks the birth
Of proud Braganza's queen.
At eve beneath their pictured dome
The gilded courtiers throng ;
The broad moidores have cheated Rome
Of all her lords of song.
Ah ! Lisbon dreams not of the day
Pleased with her painted scenes
When all her towers shall slide away
As now these canvas screens !
The spring has passed, the summer fled,
Arid yet they linger still,
Though autumn's rustling leaves have
spread
The flank of Cintra's hill.
The town has learned their Saxon name,
And touched their English gold,
Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame
From over sea is told.
Three hours the first November dawn
Has climbed with feeble ray
Through mists like heavy curtains drawn
Before the darkened day.
How still the muffled echoes sleep !
Hark ! hark ! a hollow sound,
A noise like chariots rumbling deep
Beneath the solid ground.
The channel lifts, the water slides
And bares its bar of sand,
Anon a mountain billow strides
And crashes o'er the land.
The turrets lean, the steeples reel
Like masts on ocean's swell,
And clash a long discordant peal,
The death-doomed city's knell.
The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves
Beneath the staggering town !
The turrets crack the castle cleaves
The spires come rushing down.
Around, the lurid mountains glow
With strange unearthly gleams ;
While black abysses gape below,
Then close in jagged seams.
The earth has folded like a wave,
And thrice a thousand score,
Clasped, shroudless, in their closing
grave,
The sun shall see no more !
And all is over. Street and square
In ruined heaps are piled ;
Ah ! where is she, so frail, so fair,
Amid the tumult wild ?
Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled
street,
Whose narrow gaps afford
A pathway for her bleeding feet,
To seek her absent lord.
A temple's broken walls arrest
Her wild and wandering eyes ;
Beneath its shattered portal pressed,
Her lord unconscious lies.
AGNES.
95
The power that living hearts obey
Shall lifeless blocks withstand ?
Love led her footsteps where he lay,
Love nerves her woman's hand :
One cry, the marble shaft she grasps,
Up heaves the ponderous stone :
He breathes, her fainting form he
clasps,
Her life has bought his own !
PART FIFTH.
THE REWARD.
How like the starless night of death
Our being's brief eclipse,
When faltering heart and failing breath
Have bleached the fading lips !
She lives ! What guerdon shall repay
His debt of ransomed life ?
One word can charm all wrongs away,
The sacred name of WIFE !
The love that won her girlish charms
Must shield her matron fame,
And write beneath the Frankland arms
The village beauty's name.
Go, call the priest ! no vain delay
Shall dim the sacred ring !
Who knows what change the passing day,
The fleeting hour, may bring ?
Before the holy altar bent,
There kneels a goodly pair ;
A stately man, of high descent,
A woman, passing fair.
No jewels lend the blinding sheen
That meaner beauty needs,
But on her bosom heaves unseen
A string of golden beads.
The vow is spoke, the prayer is said,
And with a gentle pride
The Lady Agnes lifts her head,
Sir Harry Frankland's bride.
No more her faithful heart shall bear
Those griefs so meekly borne,
The passing sneer, the freezing stare,
The icy look of scorn ;
No more the blue-eyed English dames
Their haughty lips shall curl,
Whene'er a hissing whisper names
The poor New England girl.
But stay ! his mother's haughty
brow,
The pride of ancient race,
Will plighted faith, and holy vow,
Win back her fond embrace ?
Too well she knew the saddening tale
Of love no vow had blest,
That turned his blushing honors pale
And stained his knightly crest.
They seek his Northern home, alas :
He goes alone before ;
His own dear Agnes may not pass
The proud, ancestral door.
He stood before the stately dame ;
He spoke ; she calmly heard,
But not to pity, nor to blame ;
She breathed no single word.
He told his love, her faith betrayed ;
She heard with tearless eyes ;
Could she forgive the erring maid ?
She stared in cold surprise.
How fond her heart, he told, how true ;
The haughty eyelids fell ;
The kindly deeds she loved to do ;
She murmured, " It is well."
96
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
But when he told that fearful day,
And how her feet were led
To where entombed in life he lay,
The breathing with the dead,
And how she bruised her tender breasts
Against the crushing stone,
That still the strong-armed clown pro-
tests
No man can lift alone,
then the frozen spring was broke ;
By turns she wept and smiled ;
" Sweet Agnes ! " so the mother spoke,
"God bless my angel child !
"She saved thee from the jaws of
death,
'T is thine to right her wrongs ;
1 tell thee, I, who gave thee breath,
To her thy life belongs "
Thus Agnes won her noble name,
Her lawless lover's hand ;
The lowly maiden so became
A lady in the land !
PART SIXTH.
CONCLUSION.
THE tale is done ; it little needs
To track their after ways,
And string again the golden beads
Of love's uncounted days.
They leave the fair ancestral isle
For bleak New England's shore ;
How gracious is the courtly smile
Of all who frowned before !
Again through Lisbon's orange bowers
They watch the river's gleam,
And shudder as her shadowy towers
Shake in the trembling stream.
Fate parts at length the fondest pair ;
His cheek, alas ! grows pale ;
The breast that trampling death could
His noiseless shafts assail.
He longs to change the heaven of blue
For England's clouded sky,
To breathe the air his boyhood knew ;
He seeks them but to die.
Hard by the terraced hillside town,
Where healing streamlets run,
Still sparkling with their old renown,
The " Waters of the Sun,"
The Lady Agnes raised the stone
That marks his ^honored grave,
And there Sir Harry sleeps alone
By Wiltshire Avon's wave.
The home of early love was dear ;
She sought its peaceful shade,
And kept her state for many a year,
With none to make afraid.
At last the evil days were come
That saw the red cross fall ;
She hears the rebels' rattling drum,
Farewell to Frankland Hall !
I tell you, as my tale began,
The Hall is standing still ;
And you, kind listener, maid or man,
May see it if you will.
The box is glistening huge and green,
Like trees the lilacs grow,
Three elms high-arching still are seen,
And one lies stretched below.
The hangings, rough with velvet flowers,
Flap on the latticed wall ;
And o'er the mossy ridge-pole towers
The rock-hewn chimney tall.
THE PLOUGHMAN.
97
The doors on mighty hinges clash
With massive bolt and bar,
The heavy English-moulded sash
Scarce can the night- winds jar.
Behold the chosen room he sought
Alone, to fast and pray,
Each year, as chill November brought
The dismal earthquake day.
There hung the rapier blade he wore,
Bent in its flattened sheath ;
The coat the shrieking woman tore
Caught in her clenching teeth ;
The coat with tarnished silver lace
She snapped at as she slid,
And down upon her death-white face
Crashed the huge coffin's lid.
A graded ten-ace yet remains ;
If on its turf you stand
And look along the wooded plains
That stretch on either hand,
The broken forest walls define
A dim, receding view,
Where, on the far horizon's line,
He cut his vista through.
If further story you shall crave,
Or ask for living proof,
Go see old Julia, born a slave
Beneath Sir Harry's roof.
She told me half that I have told,
And she remembers well
The mansion as it looked of old
Before its glories fell ;
The box, when round the terraced square
Its glossy wall was drawn ;
The climbing vines, the snow -balls fair,
The roses on the lawn.
And Julia says, with truthful look
Stamped on her wrinkled face,
That in her own black hands she took
The coat with silver lace.
And you may hold the story light,
Or, if you like, believe ;
But there it was, the woman's bite,
A mouthful from the sleeve.
Now go your ways ; I need not tell
The moral of my rhyme ;
But, youths and maidens, ponder well
This tale of olden time !
THE PLOUGHMAN.
ANNIVERSARY OF THE BERKSHIRE AG-
RICULTURAL SOCIETY, OCT. 4, 1849.
CLEAR the brown path, to meet his coul-
ter's gleam !
Lo ! on he comes, behind his smoking
team,
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sun-
burnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough !
First in the field before the reddening
sun,
Last in the shadows when the day is
done,
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet
have trod ;
Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods
divide,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and
wide ;
Matted and dense the tangled turf up-
heaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield
cleaves ;
Up the steep hillside, where the labor-
ing train
98
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Slants the long track that scores the
level plain ;
Through the moist valley, clogged with
oozing clay,
The patient convoy breaks its destined
way;
At every turn the loosening chains re-
sound,
The swinging ploughshare circles glisten-
ing round,
Till the wide field one billowy waste ap-
pears,
And wearied hands unbind the panting
steers.
These are the hands whose sturdy labor
brings
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of
kings ;
This is the page, whose letters shall be
seen
Changed by the sun to words of living
green ;
This is the scholar, whose immortal pen
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to
men ;
These are the lines which heaven-com-
manded Toil
Shows on his deed, the charter of the
soil!
gracious Mother, whose benignant
breast
"Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest,
How thy sweet features, kind to every
clime,
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front
of time !
We stain thy flowers, they blossom
o'er the dead ;
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us
bread ;
O'er the red field that trampling strife
has torn,
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled
corn ;
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest
plain,
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain.
Yet, our Mother, while uncounted
charms
Steal round our hearts in thine embrac-
ing arms,
Let not our virtues in thy love decay,
And thy fond sweetness waste our
strength away.
No I by these hills, whose banners now
displayed
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ;
By yon twin summits, on whose splin-
tery crests
The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles'
nests ;
By these fair plains the mountain circle
screens,
And feeds with streamlets from its dark
ravines,
True to their home, these faithful arms
shall toil
To crown with peace their own untainted
soil ;
And, true to God, to freedom, to man-
kind,
If her chained bandogs Faction shall
unbind,
These stately forms, that bending even
now
Bowed their strong manhood to the
humble plough,
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the
land,
The same stern iron in the same right
hand,
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph
run,
The sword has rescued what the plough-
share won !
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
99
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
1850-56.
SPRING.
WINTER is past ; the heart of Nature
warms
Beneath the wrecks of unresisted storms ;
Doubtful at first, suspected more than
seen,
The southern slopes are fringed with
tender green ;
On sheltered banks, beneath the drip-
ping eaves,
Spring's earliest nurslings spread their
glowing leaves,
Bright with the hues from wider pic-
tures won,
White, azure, golden, drift, or sky,
or sun,
The snowdrop, bearing on her patient
breast
The frozen trophy torn from Winter's
crest ;
The violet, gazing on the arch of blue
Till her own iris wears its deepened hue ;
The spendthrift crocus, bursting through
the mould
Naked and shivering with his cup of gold.
Swelled with new life, the darkening
elm on high
Prints her thick buds against the spotted
sky;
On all her boughs the stately chestnut
cleaves
The gummy shroud that wraps her
embryo leaves ;
The house-fly, stealing from his narrow
grave,
Drugged with the opiate that November
gave,
Beats with faint wing against the sunny
pane,
j Or crawls, tenacious, o'er its lucid plain ;
From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted
walls,
In languid curves, the gliding serpent
crawls ;
The bog's green harper, thawing from
his sleep,
Twangs a hoarse note and tries a short-
ened leap ;
On floating rails that face the softening
noons
The still shy turtles range their dark
platoons,
Or, toiling aimless o'er the mellowing
fields,
Trail through the grass their tessellated
shields.
At last young April, ever frail and fair,
Wooed by her playmate with the golden
hair,
Chased to the margin of receding floods
O'er the soft meadows starred with open-
ing buds,
In tears and blushes sighs herself away,
And hides her cheek beneath the flowers
of May.
Then the proud tulip lights her beacon
blaze,
Her clustering curls the hyacinth dis-
plays ;
100
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
O'er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-
lis,
Like blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and
free ;
With yellower flames the lengthened
sunshine glows,
And love lays bare the passion-breathing
rose ;
Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge
The rival lily hastens to emerge,
Her snowy shoulders glistening as she
strips,
Till morn is sultan of her parted lips.
Then bursts the song from every leafy
glade,
The yielding season's bridal serenade ;
Then flash the wings returning Summer
calls
Through the deep arches of her forest
halls,
The bluebird, breathing from his azure
plumes
The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle
blooms ;
The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping
meekly down,
Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown ;
The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire
Rent by a whirlwind from a blazing
spire.
The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat,
Repeats, imperious, his staccato note ;
The crack-brained bobolink courts his
crazy mate,
Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his
weight ;
Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings,
Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle
wings.
Why dream I here within these caging
walls,
Deaf to her voice, while blooming Na-
ture calls;
Peering and gazing with insatiate looks
Through blinding lenses, or in wearying
books ?
Off. gloomy spectres of the shrivelled
past !
Fly with the leaves that fill the autumn
blast !
Ye imps of Science, whose relentless
chains
Lock the warm tides within these living
veins,
Close your dim cavern, while its captive
strays
Dazzled and giddy in the morning's
blaze !
THE STUDY.
YET in the darksome crypt I left so
late,
Whose only altar is its rusted grate,
Sepulchral, ray less, joyless as it seems,
Shamed by the glare of May's refulgent
beams,
While the dim seasons dragged their
shrouded train,
Its paler splendors were not quite in
vain.
From these dull bars the cheerful fire-
light's glow
Streamed through the casement o'er the
spectral snow ;
Here, while the night- wind wreaked its
frantic will
On the loose ocean and the rock -bound
hill,
Rent the cracked topsail from its quiver-
ing yard,
And rived the oak a thousand storms
had scarred,
Fenced by these walls the peaceful taper
shone,
Nor felt a breath to slant its trembling
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
101
Not all unblest the mild interior scene
When the red curtain spread its falling
screen ;
O'er some light task the lonely hours
were past,
And the long evening only flew too fast ;
Or the wide chair its leathern arms would
lend
In genial welcome to some easy friend,
Stretched on its bosom with relaxing
nerves,
Slow moulding, plastic, to its hollow
curves ;
Perchance indulging, if of generous
creed,
In brave Sir Walter's dream-compelling
weed.
Or, happier still, the evening hour would
bring
To the round table its expected ring,
And while the punch-bowl's sounding
depths were stirred,
Its silver cherubs smiling as they
heard,
Our hearts would open, as at evening's
hour
The close-sealed primrose frees its hid-
den flower.
Such the warm life this dim retreat
has known,
Not quite deserted when its guests were
flown ;
Nay, filled with friends, an unobtrusive
set,
Guiltless of calls and cards and etiquette,
Ready to answer, never known to ask,
Claiming no service, prompt for every
task.
On those dark shelves no housewife
hand profanes,
O'er his mute files the monarch folio
reigns ;
A mingled race, the wreck of chance
and time,
That talk all tongues and breathe of
every clime,
Each knows his place, and each may
claim his part
In some quaint corner of his master's
heart.
This old Decretal, won from Kloss's
hoards,
Thick - leaved, brass -cornered, ribbed
with oaken boards,
Stands the gray patriarch of the graver
rows,
Its fourth ripe century narrowing to its
close ;
Not daily conned, but glorious still to
view,
With glistening letters wrought in red
and blue.
There towers Stagira's all-embracing
The Aldine anchor on his opening page ;
There sleep the births of Plato's heavenly
mind,
In yon dark tomb by jealous clasps con-
fined,
"Olim e libris" (dare I call it mine ?)
Of Yale's grave Head and Killingworth's
divine !
In those square sheets the songs of Maro
fill
The silvery types of smooth-leaved Bas-
kerville ;
High over all, in close, compact array,
Their classic wealth the Elzevirs display.
In lower regions of the sacred space
Range the dense volumes of a humbler
race;
There grim chirurgeons all their mys-
teries teach,
In spectral pictures, or in crabbed
speech ;
Harvey and Haller, fresh from Nature's
page,
102
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Shoulder the dreamers of an earlier age,
Lully and Geber, and the learned crew
That loved to talk of all they could not
do.
"Why count the rest, those names of
later days
That many love, and all agree to
praise,
Or point the titles, where a glance may
read
The dangerous lines of party or of creed ?
Too well, perchance, the chosen list
would show
"What few may care and none can claim
to know.
Each has his features, whose exterior seal
A brush may copy, or a sunbeam steal ;
Go to his study, on the nearest shelf
Stands the mosaic portrait of himself.
"What though for months the tranquil
dust descends,
"Whitening the heads of these mine an-
cient friends,
While the damp offspring of the modern
press
Flaunts on my table with its pictured
dress ;
Not less I love each dull familiar face,
Nor less should miss it from the ap-
pointed place ;
I snatch the book, along whose burning
leaves
His scarlet web our wild romancer
weaves,
Yet, while proud Hester's fiery pangs I
My old MAGNALIA must be standing
there!
THE BELLS.
WHEN o'er the street the morning peal
is flung
From yon tall belfry with the brazen
tongue,
Its wide vibrations, wafted by the gale,
To each far listener tell a different tale.
The sexton, stooping to the quivering
floor
Till the great caldron spills its brassy
roar,
Whirls the hot axle, counting, one by
one,
Each dull concussion, till his task is
done.
Toil's patient daughter, when the wel-
come note
Clangs through the silence from the
steeple's throat,
Streams, a white unit, to the checkered
street,
Demure, but guessing whom she soon
shall meet ;
The bell, responsive to her secret flame,
With every note repeats her lover's
name.
The lover, tenant of the neighboring
lane,
Sighing, and fearing lest he sigh in vain,
Hears the stern accents, as they come
and go,
Their only burden one despairing No !
Ocean's rough child, whom many a
shore has known
Ere homeward breezes swept him to his
own,
Starts at the echo as it circles round,
A thousand memories kindling with the
sound ;
The early favorite's unforgotten charms,
Whose blue initials stain his tawny
arms ;
His first farewell, the flapping canvas
spread,
The seaward streamers crackling over-
head,
His kind, pale mother, not ashamed to
weep
Her first-born's bridal with the haggard
deep,
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
103
While the brave father stood with tear-
less eye,
Smiling and choking with his last good-
T is but a wave, whose spreading cir-
cle beats,
With the same impulse, every nerve it
meets,
Yet who shall count the varied shapes
that ride
On the round surge of that aerial tide !
child of earth ! If floating sounds
like these
Steal from thyself their power to wound
or please,
If here or there thy changing will in-
clines,
As the bright zodiac shifts its rolling
signs,
Look at thy heart, and when its depths
are known
Then try thy brother's, judging by thine
own,
But keep thy wisdom to the narrower
range,
While its own standards are the sport of
change,
Nor count us rebels when we disobey
The passing breath that holds thy pas-
sion's sway.
NON-RESISTANCE.
PERHAPS too far in these considerate
days
Has patience carried her submissive
ways ;
Wisdom has taught us to be calm and
meek,
To take one blow, and turn the other
cheek ;
It is not written what a man shall do,
If the rude caitiff smite the other too !
Land of our fathers, in thine hour of
need
God help thee, guarded by the passive
creed !
As the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and
cowl,
When through the forest rings the gray
wolfs howl ;
As the deep galleon trusts her gilded
prow
When the black corsair slants athwart
her bow ;
As the poor pheasant, with his peaceful
mien,
Trusts to his feathers, shining golden-
green,
When the dark plumage with the crim-
son beak
Has rustled shadowy from its splintered
peak,
So trust thy friends, whose babbling
tongues would charm
The lifted sabre from thy foeman's arm,
Thy torches ready for the answering peal
From bellowing fort and thunder-
freighted keel !
THE MORAL BULLY.
YON whey-faced brother, who delights
to wear
A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair,
Seems of the sort that ku-a crowded
place
One elbows freely into smallest space ;
A timid creature, lax of knee and hip,
Whom small disturbance whitens round
the lip ;
One of those harmless spectacled ma-
chines,
The Holy- Week of Protestants convenes ;
Whom school-boys question if their walk
transcends
The last advices of maternal friends ;
104
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
"Whom John, obedient to his master's
sign,
Conducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine,
While Peter, glistening with luxurious
Husks his white ivories like an ear of
Dark in the brow and bilious in the
cheek,
Whose yellowish linen flowers but once
a week,
Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare
suits,
And the laced high-lows which they call
their boots
Well mayst thou shun that dingy front
severe, '
But him, stranger, him thou canst not
fear!
Be slow to judge, and slower to de-
spise,
Man of broad shoulders and heroic
size !
The tiger, writhing from the boa's rings,
Drops at the fountain where the cobra
stings.
In that lean phantom, whose extended
glove
Points to the text of universal love,
Behold the master that can tame thee
down
To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday
frown. ;
His velvet throat against thy corded
wrist,
His loosened tongue against thy doubled
fist!
The MORAL BULLY, though he never
swears,
Nor kicks intruders down his entry
stairs,
Though meekness plants his backward-
sloping hat,
And non-resistance ties his white cravat,
Though his black broadcloth glories to
be seen
In the same plight with Shylock's gaber-
dine,
Hugs the same passion to his narrow
breast
That heaves the cuirass on the trooper's
chest,
Hears the same hell-hounds yelling in
his rear
That chase from port the maddened buc-
caneer,
Feels the same comfort while his acrid
words
Turn the sweet milk of kindness into
curds,
Or with grim logic prove, beyond de-
bate,
That all we love is worthiest of our
hate,
As the scarred ruffian of the pirate's
deck,
When his long swivel rakes the stagger-
ing wreck !
Heaven keep us all ! Is every rascal
clown
Whose arm is stronger free to knock us
down ?
Has every scarecrow, whose cachectic
soul
Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on pa-
role,
Who, though he carries but a doubtful
trace
Of angel visits on his hungry face,
From lack of marrow or the coins to
Has dodged some vices in a shabby
way,
The right to stick us with his cutthroat
terms,
And bait his homilies with his brother
worms ?
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
105
THE MIND'S DIET.
No life worth naming ever comes to
good
If always nourished on the selfsame
food ;
The creeping mite may live so if he please,
And feed on Stilton till he turns to cheese,
But cool Magendie proves beyond a
doubt,
If mammals try it, that their eyes drop
out.
No reasoning natures find it safe to
feed,
For their sole diet, on a single creed ;
It spoils their eyeballs while it spares
their tongues,
And starves the heart to feed the noisy
lungs.
"When the first larvae on the elm are
seen,
The crawling wretches, like its leaves,
are green ;
Ere chill October shakes the latest down,
They, like the foliage, change their tint
to brown ;
On the blue flower a bluer flower yon spy,
You stretch to pluck it 't is a butter-
fly;
The flattened tree-toads so resemble bark,
They 're hard to find as Ethiops in the
dark ;
The woodcock, stiffening to fictitious
mud,
Cheats the young sportsman thirsting for
his blood ;
So by long living on a single lie,
Nay, on one truth, will creatures get its
dye;
Red, yellow, green, they take their sub-
ject's hue.
Except when squabbling turns them
black and blue !
OUR LIMITATIONS.
WE trust and fear, we question and
believe,
From life's dark threads a trembling
faith to weave,
Frail as the web that misty night has
spun,
Whose dew-gemmed awnings glitter in
the sun.
While the calm centuries spell their les-
sons out,
Each truth we conquer spreads the realm
of doubt ;
When Sinai's summit was Jehovah's
throne,
The chosen Prophet knew his voice
alone ;
When Pilate's hall that awful question
heard,
The Heavenly Captive answered not a
word.
Eternal Truth ! beyond our hopes and
fears
Sweep the vast orbits of thy myriad
spheres !
From age to age, while History carves
sublime
On her waste rock the flaming curves of
time,
How the wild swayings of our planet
show
That worlds unseen surround the world
we know.
THE OLD PLAYER.
THE curtain rose ; in thunders long
and loud
The galleries rung; the veteran actor
bowed.
In flaming line the telltales of the stage
Showed on his brow the autograph of
age;
106
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Pale, hueless waves amid his clustered
hair,
And umbered shadows, prints of toil
and care ;
Round the wide circle glanced his vacant
eye,
He strove to speak, his voice was but
a sigh.
Year after year had seen its short-
lived race
Flit past the scenes and others take their
place ;
Yet the old prompter watched his accents
still,
His name still flaunted on the evening's
bill.
Heroes, the monarchs of the scenic floor,
Had died in earnest and were heard no
more;
Beauties, whose cheeks such roseate
bloom o'erspread
They faced the footlights in unborrowed
red,
Had faded slowly through successive
shades
To gray duennas, foils of younger maids ;
Sweet voices lost the melting tones that
start
With Southern throbs the sturdy Saxon
heart,
"While fresh sopranos shook the painted
sky
With their long, breathless, quivering
locust-cry.
Yet there he stood, the man of other
days,
In the clear present's full, unsparing
blaze,
As on the oak a faded leaf that clings
While a new April spreads its burnished
wings.
How bright yon rows that soared in
triple tier,
Their central sun the flashing chandelier !
How dim the eye that sought with
doubtful aim
Some friendly smile it still might dare
to claim !
How fresh these hearts ! his own how
worn and cold !
Such the sad thoughts that long-drawn
sigh had told.
No word yet faltered on his trembling
tongue ;
Again, again, the crashing galleries rung.
As the old guardsman at the bugle's blast
Hears in its strain the echoes of the past ;
So, as the plaudits rolled and thundered
round,
A life of memories startled at the sound.
He lived again, the page of earliest
days,
Days of small fee and parsimonious
praise ;
Then lithe young Romeo hark that
silvered tone,
From those smooth lips alas! they
were his own.
Then the bronzed Moor, with all his
love and woe,
Told his strange tale of midnight melt-
frig snow ;
And dark -plumed Hamlet, with his
cloak and blade,
Looked on the royal ghost, himself a
shade.
All in one flash, his youthful memories
came,
Traced in bright hues of evanescent
flame,
As the spent swimmer's in the lifelong
dream,
While the last bubble rises through the
stream.
Call him not old, whose visionary
brain
Holds o'er the past its undivided reign.
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
107
For him in vain the envious seasons roll
"Who bears eternal summer in his soul.
If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay,
Spring with her birds, or children at
their play,
Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream
of art,
Stir the few life-drops creeping round
his heart,
Turn to the record where his years are
told,
Count his gray hairs, they cannot
make him old!
"What magic power has changed the
faded mime ?
One breath of memory on the dust of
time.
As the last window in the buttressed wall
Of some gray minster tottering to its fall,
Though to the passing crowd its hues
are spread,
A dull mosaic, yellow, green, and red,
Viewed from within, a radiant glory
shows
"When through its pictured screen the
sunlight flows,
And kneeling pilgrims on its storied pane
See angels glow in every shapeless stain ;
So streamed the vision through his
sunken eye,
Clad in the splendors of his morning sky.
All the wild hopes his eager boyhood
knew,
All the young fancies riper years proved
true,
The sweet, low-whispered words, the
winning glance
From queens of song, from Houris of
the dance,
Wealth's lavish gift, and Flattery's
soothing phrase,
And Beauty's silence when her blush
was praise,
And molting Pride, her lashes wet with
tears,
Triumphs and banquets, wreaths and
crowns and cheers,
Pangs of wild joy that perish on the
tongue,
And all that poets dream, but leave
unsung
In every heart some viewless founts
are fed
From far-off hillsides where the dews
were shed ;
On the worn features of the weariest face
Some youthful memory leaves its hidden
trace,
As in old gardens left by exiled kings
The marble basins tell of hidden springs,
But, gray with dust, and overgrown with
weeds,
Their choking jets the passer little heeds,
Till time's revenges break their seals
away,
And, clad in rainbow light, the waters
play.
Good night, fond dreamer! let the
curtain fall :
The world 's a stage, and we are players
all.
A strange rehearsal! Kings without
their crowns,
And threadbare lords, and jewel- wear-
ing clowns,
Speak the vain words that mock their
throbbing hearts,
As "Want, stern prompter ! spells them
out their parts.
The tinselled hero whom we praise and pay
Is twice an actor in a twofold play.
We smile at children when a painted
screen
Seems to their simple eyes a real scene ;
Ask the poor hireling, who has left his
throne
To seek the cheerless home he calls his
own.
108
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Which of his double lives most real [ A stain of verdure on an azure field,
Set like a jewel in a battered shield?
seems,
The world of solid fact or scenic dreams ?
Canvas, or clouds, the footlights, or
the spheres,
The play of two short hours, or seventy
years ?
Dream on ! Though Heaven may woo
our open eyes,
Through their closed lids we look on
fairer skies;
Truth is for other worlds, and hope for
this ;
The cheating future lends the present's
bliss ;
Life is a running shade, with fettered
hands,
That chases phantoms over shifting
sands ;
Death a still spectre on a marble seat,
With ever clutching palms and shackled
feet;
The airy shapes that mock life's slender
chain,
The flying joys he strives to clasp in vain,
Death only grasps; to live is to pur-
sue,
Dream on ! there 's nothing but illusion
true!
THE ISLAND RUIN.
YE that have faced the billows and
the spray
Of good St. Botolph's island-studded
bay,
As from the gliding bark your eye has
scanned
The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills
of sand,
Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershad-
owed isle,
Round as the dimple chased in beauty's
smile,
Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's
path,
Peaceful it meets him in his hour of
wrath ;
When the mailed Titan, scourged by
hissing gales,
Writhes in his glistening coat of clash-
ing scales;
The storm-beat island spreads its tran-
quil green,
Calm as an emerald on an angry queen.
So fair when distant should be fairer
near ;
A boat shall waft us from the out-
stretched pier.
The breeze blows fresh; we reach the
island's edge,
Our shallop rustling through the yield-
ing sedge.
No welcome greets us on the desert
Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no
stately pile:
Yet these green ridges mark an ancient
road;
And lo ! the traces of a fair abode ;
The long gray line that marks a garden-
wall,
And heaps of fallen beams, fire-
branded all.
Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet,
The lowliest home where human hearts
have beat ?
Its hearthstone, shaded with the bistre
stain
A century's showery torrents wash in
vain ;
Its starving orchard, where the thistle
blows
And mossy trunks still mark the broken
rows;
Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
109
Next an old roof, or where a roof has
been;
Its knot-grass, plantain, all the social
weeds,
Man's mute companions, following where
he leads ;
Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their
straggling heads,
Sown by the wind from grass-choked
garden-beds ;
Its woodbine, creeping where it used to
climb ;
Its roses, breathing of the olden time ;
All the poor shows the curious idler sees,
As life's thin shadows waste by slow
degrees,
Till naught remains, the saddening tale
to tell,
Save home's last wrecks, the cellar
and the well !
And whose the home that strews in
black decay
The one green-glowing island of the bay ?
Some dark-browed pirate's, jealous of
the fate
That seized the strangled wretch of
"Nix's Mate"?
Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed
name,
"Whom Tyburn's dangling halter yet
may claim?
Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sor-
row's heir,
Who sought a lone retreat for tears and
prayer ?
Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless
fame,
Had not his epic perished in the flame ?
Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish
frown
Chased from his solid friends and sober
town?
Or some plain tradesman's, fond of shade
and ease,
Who sought them both beneath these
quiet trees ?
Why question mutes no question can
unlock,
Dumb as the legend on the Dighton rock?
One thing at least these ruined heaps
declare, -*-
They were a shelter once ; a man lived
there.
But where the charred and crumbling
records fail,
Some breathing lips may piece the half-
told tale;
No man may live with neighbors such
as these,
Though girt with walls of rock and angry
seas,
And shield his home, his children, or
his wife,
His ways, his means, his vote, his creed,
his life,
From the dread sovereignty of Ears and
Eyes
And the small member that beneath
them lies.
They told strange things of that mys-
terious man ;
Believe who will, deny them such as can ;
Why should we fret if every passing sail
Had its old seaman talking on the rail ?
The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with
Eastern lime,
Slow wedging on, as if the waves were
slime ;
The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled
spars,
The pawing steamer with her mane of
stars,
The bull-browed galliot butting through
the stream,
The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along
her beam,
The deck-piled sloops, the pinched che-
bacco-boats,
110
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
The frigate, black with thunder-freightec
throats,
All had their talk about the lonely man
And thus, in varying phrase, the story
ran.
His name had cost him little care to
seek,
Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to
speak,
Common, not vulgar, just the kind that
slips
With least suggestion from a stranger's
lips.
His birthplace England, as his speech
might show,
Or his hale cheek, that wore the red-
streak's glow ;
His mouth sharp- moulded ; in its mirth
or scorn
There came afiash as from the milky corn,
When from the ear you rip the rustling
sheath,
And the white ridges show their even
teeth.
His stature moderate, but his strength
confessed,
In spite of broadcloth, by his ample
breast ;
Full-armed, thick-handed ; one that
had been strong,
And might be dangerous still, if things
went wrong.
He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees'
shade,
Did naught for gain, yet all his debts
were paid ;
Pdch, so 'twas thought, but careful of
his store ;
Had all he needed, claimed to have no
But some that lingered round the isle
at night
Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their
sight ;
Of creeping lonely visits that he made
To nooks and comers, with a torch and
spade.
Some said they saw the hollow of a cave ;
One, given to fables, swore it was a grave;
Whereat some shuddered, others boldly
cried,
Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew
they lied.
They said his house was framed with
curious cares,
Lest some old friend might enter un-
awares ;
That on the platform at his chamber's
door
Hinged a loose square that opened
through the floor;
Touch the black silken tassel next the
bell,
Down, with a crash, the flapping trap-
door fell;
Three stories deep the falling wretch
would strike,
To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike.
By day armed always; double-armed
at night,
His tools lay round him; wake him
such as might.
A carbine hung beside his India fan,
His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan ;
Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and
barrels gilt,
Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled
hilt;
A slashing cutlass stretched along the
bed;
All this was what those lying boatmen
said.
Then some were full of wondrous sto-
ries told
Of great oak chests and cupboards full of
gold;
Of the wedged ingots and the silver
bars
That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars ;
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
Ill
How his laced wallet often would dis-
gorge
The fresh-faced guinea of an English
George,
Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of
yore,
Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore,
And how his finger wore a rubied ring
Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a
king.
But these fine legends, told with staring
eyes,
Met with small credence from the old
and wise.
"Why tell each idle guess, each whisper
vain?
Enough : the scorched and cindered
beams remain.
He came, a silent pilgrim to the West,
Some old-world mystery throbbing in
his breast ;
Close to the thronging mart he dwelt
alone ;
He lived ; he died. The rest is all un-
known.
Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle
survey,
As the black steamer dashes through
the bay,
Why ask his buried secret to divine ?
He was thy brother ; speak, and tell us
thine !
THE BANKER'S DINNER.
THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest
feast
The town has heard of for a year, at
least ;
The sparry lustres shed their broadest
blaze,
Damask and silver catch and spread the
rays ;
The florist's triumphs crown the daintier
spoil
Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil ;
The steaming hot-house yields its largest
pines,
The sunless vaults unearth their oldest
wines ;
With one admiring look the scene sur-
vey,
And turn a moment from the bright dis-
pfay.
Of all the joys of earthly pride or
power,
What gives most life, worth living, in
an hour ?
When Victory settles on the doubtful
fight
And the last foeman wheels in panting
flight,
No thrill like this is felt beneath the
sun;
Life's sovereign moment is a battle won.
But say what next ? To shape a Senate's
choice,
By the strong magic of the master's
voice ;
To ride the stormy tempest of debate
That whirls the wavering fortunes of the
state.
Third in the list, the happy lover's
prize
Is won by honeyed words from women's
eyes.
If some would have it first instead of
third,
So let it be, I answer not a word.
The fourth, sweet readers, let the
thoughtless half
Have its small shrug and inoffensive
laugh ;
Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous
frown,
The stern half-quarter try to scowl us
down ;
112
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
But the last eighth, the choice and
sifted few,
Will hear my words, and, pleased, con-
fess them true.
Among the great whom Heaven has
made to shine,
How few have learned the art of arts, -
to dine !
Nature, indulgent to our daily need,
Kind-hearted mother ! taught us all to
feed ;
But the chief art, how rarely Nature
flings
This choicest gift among her social
kings !
Say, man of truth, has life a brighter
hour
Than waits the chosen guest who knows
his power ?
He moves with ease, itself an angel
charm,
Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled
arm,
Slides to his seat, half leading and half
led,
Smiling but quiet till the grace is said,
Then gently kindles, while by slow de-
grees
Creep softly out the little arts that
please ;
Bright looks, the cheerful language of
the eye,
The neat, crisp question and the gay
reply, -
Talk light and airy, such as -ftell may
pass
Between the rested fork and lifted
glass;
With play like this the earlier evening
flies,
Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies
rise.
His hour has come, he looks along
the chairs,
As the Great Duke surveyed his iron
squares.
That 's the young traveller, is n't
much to show,
Fast on the road, but at the table slow.
Next him, you see the author in
his look,
His forehead lined with wrinkles like a
book,
Wrote the great history of the ancient
Huns,
Holds back to fire among the heavy
guns.
0, there 's our poet seated at his side,
Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed.
Poets are prosy in their common talk,
As the fast trotters, for the most part,
walk.
And there 's our well-dressed gentle-
man, who sits,
By right divine, no doubt, among the
wits,
Who airs his tailor's patterns when he
walks,
The man that often speaks, but never
talks.
Why should he talk, whose presence
lends a grace
To every table where he shows his face ?
He knows the manual of the silver fork,
Can name his claret if he sees the
cork,
Remark that "White-top" was consid-
ered fine,
But swear the "Juno" is the better
wine ;
Is not this talking? Ask Quintilian's
rules ;
If they say No, the town has many fools.
Pause for a moment, for our eyes
behold
The plain unsceptred king, the man of
gold,
The thrice illustrious threefold million-
naire ;
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
113
Mark Ms slow-creeping, dead, metallic
stare -,
His eyes, dull glimmering, like the bal-
ance-pan
That weighs its guinea as he weighs his
man.
Who 's next ? An artist, in a satin tie
"Whose ample folds defeat the curious
eye.
And there's the cousin, -must be
asked, you know,
Looks like a spinster at a baby-show.
Hope he is cool, they set him next
the door,
And likes his place, between the gap
and bore.
Next comes a Congress-man, distin-
guished guest !
"We don't count him, they asked him
with the rest ;
And then some white cravats, with well-
shaped ties,
And heads above them which their
owners prize.
Of all that cluster round the genial
board,
Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord.
Some say they fancy, but they know not
why,
A shade of trouble brooding in his
eye,
Nothing, perhaps, the rooms are over-
hot,
Yet see his cheek, the dull-red burn-
ing spot,
Taste the brown sherry which he does
not pass,
Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his
But not forgetful of his feasting
friends,
To each in turn some lively word he
sends ;
See how he throws his baited lines about,
And plays liis men as anglers play their
trout.
With the dry sticks all bonfires are
begun ;
Bring the first fagot, proser number one !
A question drops among the listening
crew
And hits the traveller, pat on Tiin-
buctoo.
We 're on the Niger, somewhere near its
source,
Not the least hurry, take the river's
course
Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bamma-
koo,
Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo,
Thence down to Youri ; stop him if
we can,
We can't fare worse, wake up the
Congress-man !
The Congress-man, once on his talking
legs,
Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest
dregs ;
Tremendous draught for dining men to
quaff !
Nothing will choke him but a purpling
laugh.
A word, a shout, a mighty roar,
't is done ;
Extinguished ; lassoed by a treacherous
pun.
A laugh is priming to the loaded soul ;
The scattering shots become a steady
roll,
Broke by sharp cracks that run along
the line,
The light artillery of the talker's wine.
The kindling goblets flame with golden
dews,
The hoarded flasks their tawny fire dif-
fuse,
And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold
and bright,
114
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Pale as the moon and maddening as her
light ; 4
"With crimson juice the thirsty southern
sky
Sucks from the hills where buried armies
lie,
So that the dreamy passion it imparts
Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers'
hearts.
But lulls will come ; the flashing soul
transmits
.Its gleams of light in alternating fits.
The shower of talk that rattled down
amain
Ends in small patterings like an April's
rain ;
The voices halt ; the game is at a stand ;
Now for a solo from the master-hand !
'T is but a story, quite a simple
thing,
An aria touched upon a single string,
But every accent comes with such a
grace
The stupid servants listen in their place,
Each with his waiter in his lifted hands,
Still as a well-bred pointer when he
stands.
A query checks hifn : "Is he quite ex-
act ? "
(This from a grizzled, square-jawed man
of fact.)
The sparkling story leaves him to his
fate,
Crushed by a witness, smothered with
a date,
As a swift river, sown with many a
star,
Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow
bar.
The smooth divine suggests a graver
doubt ;
A neat quotation bowls the parson out ;
Then, sliding gayly from his own dis-
He laughs the learned dulness all away.
So, with the merry tale and jovial
song,
The jocund evening whirls itself along,
Till the last chorus shrieks its loud en-
core,
And the white neckcloths vanish
through the door.
One savage word ! The menials
know its tone,
And slink away; the master stands
alone.
"Well played, by "; breathe not
what were best unheard ;
His goblet shivers while he speaks the
word,
"If wine tells truth, and so have said
the wise,
It makes me laugh to think how brandy
lies !
Bankrupt to-morrow, millionnaire to-
day,
The farce is over, now begins the
play ! "
The spring he touches lets a panel
glide ;
An iron closet lurks beneath the slide,
Bright with such treasures as a search
might bring
From the deep pockets of a truant king.
Two diamonds, eyeballs of a God of
bronze,
Bought from his faithful priest, a pious
Bonze ;
A string of brilliants ; rubies, three or
four ;
Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore ;
A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife,
Noiseless and useful if we come to strife.
Gone ! As a pirate flies before the
wind,
And not one tear for all he leaves be-
hind !
From all the love his better years have
known
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
115
Fled like a felon, ah ! but not alone !
The chariot flashes through a lantern's
glare,
the wild eyes ! the storm of sable
hair !
Still to his side the broken heart will
cling,
The bride of shame, the wife without
the ring :
Hark, the deep oath, the wail of fren-
zied woe,
Lost ! lost to hope of Heaven and peace
below !
He kept his secret ; but the seed of
crime
Bursts of itself in God's appointed time.
The lives he wrecked were scattered far
and wide ;
One never blamed nor wept, she only
died.
None knew his lot, though idle tongues
would say
He sought a lonely refuge far away,
And there, with borrowed name and al-
tered mien,
He died unheeded, as he lived unseen.
The moral market had the usual chills
Of Virtue suffering from protested bills ;
The White Cravats, to friendship's mem-
ory true,
Sighed for the past, surveyed the future
Their sorrow breathed in one expressive
line,
"Gave pleasant dinners; who has got
his wine ? "
THE MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS.
WHAT ailed young Lucius ? Art had
vainly tried
To guess liis ill, and found herself defied.
The Augur plied his legendary skill ;
Useless ; the fair young Roman lan-
guished still.
His chariot took him every cloudless
day
Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way ;
They rubbed his wasted limbs with sul-
phurous oil,
Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated
soil ;
They led him tottering down the steamy
path
Where bubbling fountains filled the ther-
mal bath ;
Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave,
They washed him, shivering, in her icy
wave.
They sought all curious herbs and costly
stones,
They scraped the moss that grew on dead
men's bones,
They tried all cures the votive tablets
taught,
Scoured every place whence healing
drugs were brought,
O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers
ran,
His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan.
At last a servant heard a stranger
speak
A new chirurgeon's name ; a clever
Greek,
Skilled in his art ; from Pergamus he
came
To Rome but lately; GALEN was the
name.
The Greek was called : a man with pier-
cing eyes,
Who must be cunning, and who might
be wise.
He spoke but little, if they pleased,
he said,
He 'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's
bed.
So by his side he sat, serene and
calm,
116
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
His very accents soft as healing balm ;
Not curious seemed, but every movement
spied,
His sharp eyes searching where they
seemed to glide ;
Asked a few questions, what he felt,
and where ?
"A pain just here," " A constant beat-
ing there."
Who ordered bathing for his aches and
ails?
" Channis, the water-doctor from Mar-
seilles.'"
What was the last prescription in his
case?
"A draught of wine with powdered
chrysoprase. "
Had he no secret grief he nursed alone ?
A pause ; a little tremor ; answer,
"None."
Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cun-
ning leech,
And muttered
speech.
In the broad atrium various friends
await
The last new utterance from the lips of
fate ;
Men, matrons, maids, they talk the
question o'er,
And, restless, pace the tessellated floor.
Not unobserved the youth so long had
pined
By gentle-hearted dames and damsels
kind ;
One with the rest, a rich Patrician's
pride,
The lady Hermia, called "the golden-
eyed " ;
The same the old Proconsul fain must
woo,
Whom, one dark night, a masked sicarius
slew;
The same black Crassus over roughly
pressed
' Eros ! " in his native
To hear his suit, the Tiber knows the
rest.
(Crassus was missed next morning by his
set ;
Next week the fishers found him in their
net.)
She with the others paced the ample
hall,
Fairest, alas ! and saddest of them all.
At length the Greek declared, with
puzzled face,
Some strange enchantment mingled in
the case,
And naught would serve to act as counter-
charm
Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's
arm.
Not every maiden's, many might be
tried ;
Wliich not in vain, experience must de-
cide.
Were there no "damsels willing to at-
tend
And do such service for a suffering friend ?
The message passed among the waiting
crowd,
First in a whisper, then proclaimed
aloud.
Some wore no jewels ; some were disin-
clined,
For reasons better guessed at than de-
fined ;
Though all were saints, at least pro-
fessed to be,
The list all counted, there were named
but three.
The leech, still seated by the patient's
side,
Held his thin wrist, and watched him,
eagle-eyed.
Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl,
Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of .
pearl.
His solemn head the grave physician
shook ;
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
A MOTHER'S SECRET.
117
The waxen features thanked her with a
look.
Olympia next, a creature half divine,
Sprung from the blood of old Evander's
line,
Held her white arm, that wore a twisted
chain
Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane.
In vain, daughter ! said the baffled
Greek.
The patient sighed the thanks he could
not speak.
Last, Hermia entered ; look, that sud-
den start !
The pallium heaves above his leaping
heart ;
The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled
flame,
Those quivering lips, the secret all pro-
claim.
The deep disease long throbbing in the
breast,
The dread enchantment, all at once con-
fessed !
The case was plain ; the treatment was
begun ;
And Love soon cured the mischief he had
done.
Young Love, too oft thy treacherous
bandage slips
Down from the eyes it blinded to the
lips!
Ask not the Gods, youth, for clearer
sight,
But the bold heart to plead thy cause
aright.
And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers
sigh,
Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust
thine eye ;
And learn this secret from the tale of
old:
No love so true as love that dies un-
told.
How sweet the sacred legend if
unblamed
In my slight verse such holy things are
named
Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy,
Silent, but pondering on her wondrous
boy!
Ave, Maria ! Pardon, if I wrong
Those heavenly words that shame my
earthly song !
The choral host had closed the Angel's
strain
Sung to the listening watch on Bethle-
hem's plain,
And now the shepherds, hastening on
their way,
Sought the still hamlet where the Infant
lay.
They passed the fields that gleaning
Ruth toiled o'er,
They saw afar the ruined threshing-
floor
Where Moab's daughter, homeless and
forlorn,
Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of
corn ;
And some remembered how the holy
scribe,
Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe,
Traced the warm blood of Jesse's royal
son
To that fair alien, bravely wooed and
won.
So fared they on to seek the promised
sign,
That marked the anointed heir of
David's line.
At last, by forms of earthly semblance
led,
They found the crowded inn, the oxen's
shed.
No pomp was there, no glory shone
around
118
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
On the coarse straw that strewed the
reeking ground;
One dim retreat a flickering torch be-
trayed,
In that poor cell the Lord of Life was
laid!
The wondering shepherds told their
breathless tale
Of the bright choir that woke the sleep-
ing vale ;
Told how the skies with sudden glory
flamed,
Told how the shining multitude pro-
claimed,
"Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hal-
lowed morn !
In David's city Christ the Lord is born !
' Glory to God ! ' let angels shout on high,
'Good- will to men!' the listening earth
reply!"
They spoke with hurried words and
accents wild;
Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly
child.
No trembling word the mother's joy re-
vealed,
One sigh of rapture, and her lips were
sealed ;
Unmoved she saw the rustic train depart,
But kept their words to ponder in her
heart.
Twelve years had passed ; the boy was
fair and tall,
Growing in wisdom, finding grace with
all.
The maids of Nazareth, as they trooped
to fill
Their balanced urns beside the moun-
tain rill,
The gathered matrons, as they sat and
spun,
Spoke in soft words of Joseph's quiet
son.
No voice had reached the Galilean vale
Of star-led kings, or awe-struck shep-
herd's tale ;
In the meek, studious child they only saw
The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law.
So grew the boy, and now the feast
was near
When at the IJoly Place the tribes
appear.
Scarce had the home-bred child of
Nazareth seen
Beyond the hills that girt the village
green ;
Save when at midnight, o'er the starlit
sands,
Snatched from the steel of Herod's mur-
dering bands,
A babe, close folded to his mother's
breast,
Through Edom's wilds he sought the
sheltering West.
Then Joseph spake : " Thy boy hath
largely grown ;
Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be
shown ;
Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the
priest :
Goes he not with us to the holy feast ? "
And Mary culled the flaxen fibres
white ;
Till eve she spun ; she spun till morn-
ing light.
The thread was twined ; its parting
meshes through
From hand to hand her restless shuttle
flew,
Till the full web was wound upon the
beam;
Love's curious toil, a vest without a
seam!
They reach the Holy Place, fulfil the
days
To solemn feasting given, and grateful
praise.
At last they turn, and far Moriah's
height
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
119
Melts in the southern sky and fades
from sight.
All day the dusky caravan has flowed
In devious trails along the winding road ;
(For many a step their homeward path
attends,
And all the sons of^ Abraham are as
friends.)
Evening has come, the hour of rest
and joy,
Hush! Hush! That whisper, " Where
is Mary's boy?"
weary hour! aching days that
Filled with strange fears each wilder
than the last,
The soldier's lance, the fierce centurion's
sword,
The crushing wheels that whirl some
Roman lord,
The midnight crypt that sucks the cap-
tive's breath,
The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of
death !
Thrice on his cheek had rained the
morning light ;
Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of
night,
Crouched by a sheltering column's shin-
ing plinth,
Or stretched beneath the odorous tere-
binth.
At last, in desperate mood, they
sought once more
The Temple's porches, searched in vain
before ;
They found him seated with the ancient
men,
The grim old rufflers of the tongue and
pen,
Their bald heads glistening as they
clustered near,
Their gray beards slanting as they
turned to hear,
Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise
That lips so fresh should utter words so
wise.
And Mary said, as one who, tried
too long,
Tells all her grief and half her sense of
wrong,
" What is this thoughtless thing which
thou hast done ?
Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing,
my son !"
Few words he spake, and scarce of
filial tone,
Strange words, their sense a mystery
yet unknown ;
Then turned with them and left the
holy hill,
To all their mild commands obedient
still.
The tale was told to Nazareth's sober
men,
And Nazareth's matrons told it oft
again ;
The maids retold it at the fountain's
side,
The youthful shepherds doubted or
denied ; '
It passed around among the listening
friends,
With all that fancy adds and fiction
lends,
Till newer marvels dimmed the young
renown
Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbis
down.
But Mary, faithful to its lightest word,
Kept in her heart the sayings she had
heard,
Till the dread morning rent the Tem-
ple's veil,
And shuddering earth confirmed the
wondrous tale.
Youth fades ; love droops ; the leaves
of friendship fall :
A mother's secret hope outlives them all.
120 SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
THE DISAPPOINTED STATESMAN.
WHO of all statesmen is his country's
pride,
Her councils' prompter and her leaders'
guide ?
He speaks ; the nation holds its breath
to hear ;
He nods, and shakes the sunset hemi-
sphere.
Born where the primal fount of Nature
springs
By the rude cradles of her throneless
kings,
In his proud eye her royal signet flames,
By his own lips her Monarch she pro-
claims.
Why name his countless triumphs,
whom to meet
Is to be famous, envied in defeat ?
The keen debaters, trained to brawls
and strife,
Who fire one shot, and finish with the
knife,
Tried him but once, and, cowering in
their shame,
Ground their hacked blades to strike at
meaner game.
The lordly chief, his party's central stay,
Whose lightest word a hundred votes
obey,
Found a new listener seated at his side,
Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied,
Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled
floor,
Met the all -conquering, fought and
ruled no more.
See where he moves, what eager
crowds attend!
What shouts of thronging multitudes
ascend !
If this is life, to mark with every hour
The purple deepening in his robes of
power,
To see the painted fruits of honor fall
Thick at his feet, and cfcoose among
them all,
To hear the sounds that shape his
spreading name
Peal through the myriad organ-stops of
fame,
Stamp the lone isle that spots the sea-
man's chart,
And crown the pillared glory of the mart,
To count as peers the few supremely \yise
Who mark their planet in the angels'
eyes,
If this is life
What savage man is he
Who strides alone beside the sounding
Alone he wanders by the murmuring
shore,
His thoughts as restless as the waves
that roar ;
Looks on the sullen sky as stormy-
browed
As on the waves yon tempest-brooding
cloud,
Heaves from his aching breast a wailing
sigh,
Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded
sky.
Ask him his griefs ; what midnight de-
mons plough
The lines of torture on his lofty brow ;
Unlock those marble lips, and bid them
speak
The mystery freezing in his bloodless
cheek.
His secret ? Hid beneath a flimsy
word;
One foolish whisper that ambition heard ;
And thus it spake : " Behold yon gilded
chair,
The world's one vacant throne, thy
place is there!"
Ah, fatal dream ! What warning
spectres meet
In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat !
PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS.
121
Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his ear
The maddening taunt he cannot choose
but hear :
" Meanest of slaves, by gods and men
accurst,
He who is second when he might be first !
Climb with bold front the ladder's top-
most round,
Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the
ground ! "
Illustrious Dupe ! Have those majes-
tic eyes
Lost their proud fire for such a vulgar
prize ?
Art thou the last of all mankind to know
That party-fights are won by aiming low ?
Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal
sign,
That party-hirelings hate a look like
thine ?
Shake from thy sense the wild delusive
dream !
Without the purple, art thou not su-
preme ?
And soothed by love unbought, thy
heart shall own
A nation's homage no bier than its throne !
THE SECRET OF THE STARS.
Is man's the only throbbing heart that
hides
The silent spring that feeds its whisper-
ing tides ?
Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breed-
ing Earth,
Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth,
And calm the noisy champions who have
thrown
The book of types against the book of
stone !
Have ye not secrets, ye refulgent
spheres,
No sleepless listener of the starlight
hears ?
In vain the sweeping equatorial pries
Through every world-sown corner of the
skies,
To the far orb that so remotely strays
Our midnight darkness is its noonday
blaze ;
In vain the climbing soul of creeping
man
Metes out the heavenly concave with a
span,
Tracks into space the long-lost meteor's
trail,
And weighs an unseen planet in the
scale ;
Still o'er their doubts the waneyed
watchers sigh,
And Science lifts her still unanswered
cry:
" Are all these worlds, that speed their
circling flight,
Dumb, vacant, soulless, bawbles of
the night ?
Warmed with God's smile and wafted
by his breath,
To weave in ceaseless round the dance
of Death ?
Or rolls a sphere in each expanding zone,
Crowned with a life as varied as our
own ? "
Maker of earth and stars ! If thou
hast taught
By what thy voice hath spoke, thy hand
hath wrought,
By all that Science proves, or guesses
true,
More than thy Poet dreamed, thy prophet
knew,
The heavens still bow in darkness at thy
feet,
And shadows veil thy cloud-pavilioned
seat !
Not for ourselves we ask thee to reveal
122
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
One awful word beneath the future's seal ;
What thou shalt tell us, grant us strength
to bear ;
What thou withholdest is thy single
care.
Not for ourselves ; the present clings too
fast,
Moored to the mighty anchors of the
past;
But when, with angry snap, some cable
parts,
The sound re-echoing in our startled
hearts,
When, through the wall that clasps the
harbor round,
And shuts the raving ocean from its
bound,
Shattered and rent by sacrilegious hands,
The first mad billow leaps upon the
sands,
Then to the Future's awful page we
turn,
And what we question hardly dare to
learn.
Still let us hope ! for while we seem
to tread
The time-worn pathway of the nations
dead,
Though Sparta laughs at all our warlike
deeds,
And buried Athens claims our stolen
creeds,
Though Rome, a spectre on her broken
throne,
Beholds our eagle and recalls her own,
Though England fling her pennons on
the breeze
And reign before us Mistress of the
seas,
While calm-eyed History tracks us cir-
cling round
Fate's iron pillar where they all were
bound,
She sees new beacons crowned with
brighter flame
Than the old watch-fires, like, but not
the same !
Still in our path a larger curve she
finds,
The spiral widening as the chain un-
winds ! "
No shameless haste shall spot with ban-
dit-crime
Our destined empire snatched before its
time.
Wait, wait, undoubting, for the winds
have caught
From our bold speech the heritage of
thought ;
No marble form that sculptured truth
can wear
Vies with the image shaped in viewless
air;
And thought unfettered grows through
speech to deeds,
As the broad forest marches in its
seeds.
What though we perish ere the day is
won?
Enough to see its glorious work begun !
The thistle falls before a trampling
clown,
But who can chain the flying thistle-
down?
Wait while the fiery seeds of freedom
fly,
The prairie blazes when the grass is
dry!
What arms might ravish, leave to
peaceful arts,
Wisdom and love shall win the roughest
hearts ;
So shall the angel who has closed for
man
The blissful garden since his woes be-
gan
Swing wide the golden portals of the
West,
And Eden's secret stand at length con-
fessed !
A POEM.
123
A POEM.
DEDICATION OF THE PITTSFIELD CEME-
TERY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1850.
AXGEL of Death ! extend thy silent reign !
Stretch thy dark sceptre o'er this new
domain !
No sable car along the winding road
Has borne to earth its unresisting load ;
No sudden mound has risen yet to show
Where the pale slumberer folds his arms
below ;
No marble gleams to bid his memory live
In the brief lines that hurrying Time
can give ;
Yet, Destroyer! from thy shrouded
throne
Look on our gift ; this realm is all thine
own!
Fair is the scene ; its sweetness oft be-
guiled
From their dim paths the children of
the wild ;
The dark-haired maiden loved its grassy
dells,
The feathered warrior claimed its wooded
swells,
Still on its slopes the ploughman's ridges
show
The pointed flints that left his fatal bow,
Chipped with rough art and slow bar-
barian toil,
Last of his wrecks that strews the alien
soil!
Here spread the fields that heaped
their ripened store
Till the brown arms of Labor held no
more ;
The scythe's broad meadow with its
dusky blush ;
The sickle's'harvest with its velvet flush ;
The green-haired maize, her silken
tresses laid,
In soft luxuriance, on her harsh brocade ;
The gourd that swells beneath her toss-
ing plume ;
The coarser wheat that rolls in lakes of
bloom,
Its coral stems and milk-white flowers
alive
With the wide murmurs of the scattered
hive;
Here glowed the apple with the pen-
cilled streak
Of morning painted on its southern
cheek ;
The pear's long necklace strung with
golden drops,
Arched, like the banian, o'er its pillared
props ;
Here crept the growths that paid the
laborer's care
With the cheap luxuries wealth con-
sents to spare;
Here sprang the healing herbs which
could not save
The hand that reared them from the
neighboring grave.
Yet all its varied charms, forever free
From task and tribute, Labor yields to
thee :
No more, when April sheds her fitful
rain,
The sower's hand shall cast its flying
grain ;
No more, when Autumn strews the
flaming leaves,
The reaper's band shall gird its yellow
sheaves ;
For thee alike the circling seasons flow
Till the first blossoms heave the latest
snow.
In the stiff clod below the whirling
drifts,
In the loose soil the springing herbage
lifts,
In the hot dust beneath the parching
weeds,
124
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Life's withering flower shall drop its
shrivelled seeds;
Its germ entranced in thy uiibreathing
sleep
Till what thou sowest mightier angels
reap!
Spirit of Beauty ! let thy graces blend
With loveliest Nature all that Art can
lend.
Come from the bowers where Summer's
life-blood flows
Through the red lips of June's half-open
rose.
Dressed in bright hues, the loving sun-
shine's dower ;
For tranquil Nature owns no mourning
flower.
Come from the forest where the beech's
screen
Bars the fierce noonbeam with its flakes
of green ;
Stay the rude axe that bares the shadowy
plains,
Stanch the deep wound that dries the
maple's veins.
Come with the stream whose silver-
braided rills
Fling their unclasping bracelets from the
hills,
Till in one gleam, beneath the forest's
wings,
Melts the white glitter of a hundred
springs.
Come from the steeps where look ma-
jestic forth
From their twin thrones the Giants of
the North
On the huge shapes, that, crouching at
their knees,
Stretch their broad shoulders, rough with
shaggy trees.
Through the wide waste of ether, not in
vain,
Their softened gaze shall reach our dis-
tant plain ;
There, while the mourner turns his ach-
ing eyes
On the blue mounds that print the bluer
skies,
Nature shall whisper that the fading
view
Of mightiest grief may wear a heavenly
hue.
Cherub of Wisdom ! let thy marble page
Leave its sad lesson, new to every age ;
Teach us to live, not grudging every
breath
To the chill winds that waft us on to
death,
But ruling calmly every pulse it warms,
And tempering gently every word it
forms.
Seraph of Love! in heaven's adoring
zone,
"Nearest of all around the central throne,
While with soft hands the pillowed turf
we spread
That soon shall hold us in its dreamless
bed,
With the low whisper, Who shall first
be laid
In the dark chamber's yet unbroken
shade ?
Let thy sweet radiance shine rekindled
here,
And all we cherish grow more truly dear.
Here in the gates of Death's o'erhanging
vault,
0, teach us kindness for our brother's
fault ;
Lay all our wrongs beneath this peaceful
sod,
And lead our hearts to Mercy and its
God.
FATHER of all ! in Death's relentless
claim
TO GOVERNOR SWAIN.
125
WB read thy mercy by its sterner name;
In the bright flower that decks the sol-
emn bier,
We see thy glory in its narrowed sphere;
In the deep lessons that affliction draws,
"We trace the curves of thy encircling
laws ;
In the long sigh that sets our spirits free,
We own the love that calls us back to
Thee!
Through the hushed street, along the
silent plain,
The spectral future leads its mourning
train,
Dark with the shadows of uncounted
bands,
Where man's white lips and woman's
wringing hands
Track the still burden, rolling slow be-
fore,
That love and kindness can protect no
more ;
The smiling babe that, called to mortal
strife,
Shuts its meek eyes and drops its little
life;
The drooping child who prays in vain to
live,
And pleads for help its parent cannot
give;
The pride of beauty stricken in its flower ;
The strength of manhood broken in an
hour ;
Age in its weakness, bowed by toil and
care,
Traced in sad lines beneath its silvered
hair.
The sun shall set, and heaven's re-
splendent spheres
Gild the smooth turf unhallowed yet by
tears,
But ah ! how soon the evening stars will
shed
Their sleepless light around the slum-
bering dead !
Take them, Father, in immortal
trust!
Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust,
Till the last angel rolls the stone away,
And a new morning brings eternal day !
TO GOVERNOR SWAIN.
DEAR GOVERNOR, if my skiff might
brave
The winds that lift the ocean wave,
The mountain stream that loops and
swerves
Through my broad meadow's channelled
curves
Should waft me on from bound to bound
To where the River weds the Sound,
The Sound should give me to the Sea,
That to the Bay, the Bay to Thee.
It may not be ; too long the track
To follow down or struggle back.
The sun has set on fair Naushon
Long ere my western blaze is gone ;
The ocean disk is rolling dark
In shadows round your swinging bark,
While yet the yellow sunset fills
The stream that scarfs my spruce-clad
hills ;
The day-star wakes your island deer
Long ere my barnyard chanticleer ;
Your mists are soaring in the blue
While mine are sparks of glittering dew.
It may not be ; would it might,
Could I live o'er that glowing night !
What golden hours would come to life,
What goodly feats of peaceful strife,
Such jests, that, drained of every joke,
The very bank of language broke,
Such deeds, that Laughter nearly died
With stitches in his belted side ;
126
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
While Time, caught fast in pleasure's
chain,
His double goblet snapped in twain,
And stood with half in either hand,
Both brimming full, but not of sand !
It may not be ; I strive in vain
To break my slender household chain,
Three pairs of little clasping hands,
One voice, that whispers, not commands.
Even while my spirit flies away,
My gentle jailers murmur nay ;
All shapes of elemental wrath
They raise along my threatened path ;
The storm grows black, the waters rise,
The mountains mingle with the skies,
The mad tornado scoops the ground,
The midnight robber prowls around,
Thus, kissing every limb they tie,
They draw a knot and heave a sigh,
Till, fairly netted in the toil,
My feet are rooted to the soil.
Only the soaring wish is free !
And that, dear Governor, flies to thee !
PlTTSFIELD, 1851.
TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND.
THE seed that wasteful autumn cast
To waver on its stormy blast,
Long o'er the wintry desert tost,
Its living germ has never lost.
Dropped by the weary tempest's wing,
It feels the kindling ray of spring,
And, starting from its dream of death,
Pours on the air its perfumed breath.
So, parted by the rolling flood,
The love that springs from common
blood
Needs but a single sunlit hour
Of mingling smiles to bud and flower ;
Unharmed its slumbering life has flown,
From shore to shore, from zone to
zone,
Where summer's falling roses stain
The tepid waves of Pontchartrain,
Or where the lichen creeps below
Katahdin's wreaths of whirling snow.
Though fiery sun and stiffening cold
May change the fair ancestral mould,
No winter chills, no summer drains
The life-blood drawn from English
veins,
Still bearing wheresoe'er it flows
The love that with its fountain rose,
Unchanged by space, un wronged by
time,
From age to age, from clime to clime !
1852.
VIGNETTES.
127
VIGNETTES.
1853.
AFTER A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH.
COME, spread your wings, as I spread
mine,
And leave the crowded hall
For where the eyes of twilight shine
O'er evening's Western wall.
These are the pleasant Berkshire hills,
Each with its leafy crown ;
Hark ! from their sides a thousand rills
Come singing sweetly down.
A thousand rills ; they leap and shine,
Strained through the shadowy nooks,
Till, clasped in many a gathering twine,
They swell a hundred brooks.
A hundred brooks, and still they run
With ripple, shade, and gleam,
Till, clustering all their braids in one,
They flow a single stream.
A bracelet spun from mountain mist,
A silvery sash unwound,
"With ox-bow curve and sinuous twist
It writhes to reach the Sound.
This is my bark, a pygmy's ship ;
Beneath a child it rolls ;
Fear not, one body makes it dip,
But not a thousand souls.
Float we the grassy banks between ;
Without an oar we glide ;
The meadows, drest in living green,
Unroll on either side.
Come, take the book we'- love so well,
And let us read and dream
We see whate'er its pages tell,
And sail an English stream.
Up to the clouds the lark has sprung,
Still trilling as he flies ;
The linnet sings as there he sung ;
The unseen cuckoo cries,
And daisies strew the banks along,
And yellow kingcups shine,
With cowslips, and a primrose throng,
And humble celandine.
Ah foolish dream ! when Nature nursed
Her daughter in the West,
The fount was drained that opened first ;
She bared her other breast.
On the young planet's orient shore
Her morning hand she tried ;
Then turned the broad medallion o'er
And stamped the sunset side.
Take what she gives, her pine's tall stem,
Her elm with hanging spray ;
She wears her mountain diadem
Still in her own proud way.
Look on the forests' ancient kings,
The hemlock's towering pride :
Yon trunk had thrice a hundred rings,
And fell before it died.
128
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Nor think that Nature saves her bloom
And slights our grassy plain ;
For us she wears her court costume,
Look on its broidered train ;
The lily with the sprinkled dots,
Brands of the noontide beam ;
The cardinal, and the blood-red spots,
Its double in the stream,
As if some wounded eagle's breast,
Slow throbbing o'er the plain,
Had left its airy path impressed
In drops of scarlet rain.
And hark ! and hark ! the woodland rings ;
There thrilled the thrush's soul ;
And look ! that flash of flamy wings,
The fire-plumed oriole !
Above, the hen-hawk swims and swoops,
Flung from the bright, blue sky ;
Below, the robin hops, and whoops
His piercing, Indian cry.
Beauty runs virgin in the woods
Robed in her rustic green,
And oft a longing thought intrudes,
As if we might have seen
Her every finger's every joint
Ringed with some golden line,
Poet whom Nature did anoint !
Had our wild home been thine.
Yet think not so ; Old England's blood
Runs warm in English veins ;
But wafted o'er the icy flood
Its better life remains :
Our children know each wildwood smell,
The bayberry and the fern,
The man who does not know them well
Is all too old to learn.
Be patient ! On the breathing page
Still pants our hurried past ;
Pilgrim and soldier, saint and sage,
The poet comes the last !
Though still the lark- voiced matins ring
The world has known so long ;
The wood- thrush of the West shall sing
Earth's last sweet even-song !
AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE.
SHINE soft, ye trembling tears of light
That strew the mourning skies ;
Hushed in the silent dews of night
The harp of Erin lies.
What though her thousand years have
past
Of poets, saints, and kings,
Her echoes only hear the last
That swept those golden strings.
Fling o'er his mound, ye star-lit bowers,
The balmiest wreaths ye wear,
Whose breath has lent your earth-born
flowers
Heaven's own ambrosial air.
Breathe, bird of night, thy softest tone,
By shadowy grove and rill ;
Thy song will soothe us while we own
That his was sweeter still.
Stay, pitying Time, thy foot for him
Who gave thee swifter wings,
Nor let thine envious shadow dim
The light his glory flings.
If in his cheek unholy blood
Burned for one youthful hour,
'T was but the flushing of the bud
That blooms a milk-white flower.
VIGNETTES.
129
Take him, kind mother, to thy breast,
Who loved thy smiles so well,
And spread thy mantle o'er his rest
Of rose and asphodel.
The bark has sailed the midnight sea,
The sea without a shore,
That waved its parting sign to thee,
"A health to thee, Tom Moore ! "
And thine, long lingering on the strand,
Its bright-hued streamers furled,
Was loosed by age, with trembling hand,
To seek the silent world.
Not silent ! no, the radiant stars
Still singing as they shine,
Unheard through earth's imprisoning
bars,
Have voices sweet as thine.
Wake, then, in happier realms above,
The songs of bygone years,
Till angels learn those airs of love
That ravished mortal ears !
AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS.
"Purpureos spargam flores."
THE wreath that star-crowned Shelley
gave
Is lying on thy Roman grave,
Yet on its turf young April sets
Her store of slender violets ;
Though all the Gods their garlands
shower,
I too may bring one purple flower.
Alas ! what blossom shall I bring,
That opens in my Northern spring ?
The garden beds have all run wild,
So trim when I was yet a child ;
Flat plantains and unseemly stalks
Have crept across the gravel walks ;
The vines are dead, long, long ago,
The almond buds no longer blow.
No more upon its mound I see
The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis ;
Where once the tulips used to show,
In straggling tufts the pansies grow;
The grass has quenched my white-rayed
gem,
The flowering " Star of Bethlehem,"
Though its long blade of glossy green
And pallid stripe may still be seen.
Nature, who treads her nobles down,
And gives their birthright to the clown,
Has sown her base-born weedy things
Above the garden's queens and kings.
Yet one sweet flower of ancient race
Springs in the old familiar place.
When snows were melting down the
vale,
And Earth unlaced her icy mail,
And March his stormy trumpet blew,
And tender green came peeping through,
I loved the earliest one to seek
That broke the soil with emerald beak,
And watch the trembling bells so blue
Spread on the column as it grew.
Meek child of earth ! thou wilt not shame
The sweet, dead poet's holy name ;
The God of music gave thee birth,
Called from the crimson-spotted earth,
Where, sobbing his young life away,
His own fair Hyacinthus lay.
The hyacinth my garden gave
Shall lie upon that Roman grave !
AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY.
ONE broad, white sail in Spezzia's treach-
erous bay ;
On comes the blast ; too daring bark,
beware !
The cloud has clasped her ; lo ! it melts
away ;
The wide, waste waters, but no sail is
there.
130
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Morning : a woman looking on the sea ;
Midnight : with lamps the long veran-
da burns ;
Come, wandering sail, they watch, they
burn for thee !
Suns come and go, alas ! no bark
returns.
And feet are thronging on the pebbly
sands,
And torches flaring in the weedy caves,
Where'er the waters lay with icy hands
The shapes uplifted from their coral
graves.
Vainly they seek ; the idle quest is o'er ;
The coarse, dark women, with their
hanging locks,
And lean, wild children gather from the
shore
To the black hovels bedded in the
rocks.
But Love still prayed, with agonizing
wail,
" One, one last look, ye heaving
waters, yield!"
Till Ocean, clashing in his jointed mail,
Raised the pale burden on his level
shield.
Slow from the shore the sullen waves
retire ;
His form a nobler element shall
claim ;
Nature baptized him in ethereal fire,
And Death shall crown him with a
wreath of flame.
Fade, mortal semblance, never to return ;
Swift is the change within thy crimson
shroud ;
Seal the white ashes in the peaceful urn ;
All else has risen in yon silvery cloud.
Sleep where thy gentle Adonais lies,
Whose open page lay on thy dying
heart,
Both in the smile of those blue-vaulted
skies,
Earth's fairest dome of all divinest
art.
Breathe for his wandering soul one pass-
ing sigh,
happier Christian, while thine eye
grows dim,
In all the mansions of the house on high,
Say not that Mercy has not one for
him!
AT THE CLOSE OF A COURSE OF
LECTURES.
As the voice of the watch to the mari-
ner's dream ;
As the footstep of Spring on the ice-
girdled stream,
There comes a soft footstep, a whisper,
to me,
The vision is over, the rivulet free !
We have trod from the threshold of tur-
bulent March,
Till the green scarf of April is hung on
the larch,
And down the bright hillside that wel-
comes the day,
We hear the warm panting of beautiful
May.
We will part before Summer has opened
her wing,
And the bosom of June swells the bodice
of Spring,
While the hope of the season lies fresh
in the bud,
And the young life of Nature runs warm
in our blood.
VIGNETTES.
131
It is but a word, and the chain is un-
bound,
The bracelet of steel drops unclasped to
the ground ;
No hand shall replace it, it rests
where it fell,
It is but one word that we all know too
well.
Yet the hawk with the wildness un-
tamed in his eye,
If you free him, stares round ere he
springs to the sky;
The slave whom no longer his fetters
restrain
Will turn for a moment and look at his
chain.
Our parting is not as the friendship of
years,
That chokes with the blessing it speaks
through its tears ;
We have walked in a garden, and, looking
around,
Have plucked a few leaves from the
myrtles we found.
But now at the gate of the garden we
stand,
And the moment has come for unclasp-
ing the hand ;
Will you drop it like lead, and in silence
retreat
Like the twenty crushed forms from an
omnibus seat ?
Nay ! hold it one moment, the last
we may share,
I stretch it in kindness, and not for my
fare ;
You may pass through the doorway in
rank or in file,
If your ticket from Nature is stamped
with a smile.
For the sweetest of smiles is the smile
as \ve part,
When the light round the lips is a ray
from the heart ;
And lest a stray tear from its fountain
might swell,
We will seal the bright spring with a
quiet farewell.
THE HUDSON.
AFTER A LECTURE AT ALBANY.
'T WAS a vision of childhood that came
with its dawn,
Ere the curtain that covered life's day-
star was drawn ;
The nurse told the tale when the shad-
ows grew long,
And the mother's soft lullaby breathed
it in song.
" There flows a fair stream by the hills
of the west,"
She sang to her boy as he lay on her
breast ;
"Along its smooth margin thy fathers
have played ;
Beside its deep waters their ashes are
laid."
I wandered afar from the land of my
birth,
I saw the old rivers, renowned upon
earth,
But fancy still painted that wide-flow-
ing stream
With the many-hued pencil of infancy's
dream.
I saw the green banks of the castle-
crowned Rhine,
Where the grapes drink the moonlight
and change it to wine ;
132
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
I stood by the Avon, whose waves as
they glide
Still whisper his glory _who sleeps at
their side.
But my heart would still yearn for the
sound of the waves
That sing as they flow by my fore-
fathers' graves ;
If manhood yet honors my cheek with a
tear,
I care not who sees it, no blush for it
here !
Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of
the West !
I fling this loose blossom to float on its
breast ;
Nor let the dear love of its children
grow cold,
Till the channel is dry where its waters
have rolled !
December, 1854.
A POEM
FOR THE MEETING OF THE AMERICAN
MEDICAL ASSOCIATION AT NEW YORK,
MAY 5, 1853.
I HOLD a letter in my hand,
A flattering letter more's the pity,
By some contriving junto planned,
And signed per order of Committee ;
It touches every tenderest spot,
My patriotic predilections,
My well - known something don't
ask what,
My poor old songs, my kind affec-
tions.
They make a feast on Thursday next,
And hope to make the feasters merry ;
They own they 're something more per-
plexed
For poets than for port and sherry ;
They want the men of (word torn
out) ;
Our friends will come with anxious
faces
(To see our blankets off, no doubt,
And trot us out and show our paces).
They hint that papers by the score
Are rather musty kind of rations ;
They don't exactly mean a bore,
But only trying to the patience ;
That such as you know who I mean
Distinguished for their what d' ye
call 'em
Should bring the dews of Hippocrene
To sprinkle on the faces solemn.
The same old story ; that 's the chaff
To catch the birds that sing the dit-
ties ;
Upon my soul, it makes me laugh
To read these letters from Commit-
tees !
They 're all so loving and so fair,
All for your sake such kind compunc-
tion,
'T would save your carriage half its wear
To touch its wheels with such an unc-
tion !
Why, who am I, to lift me here
And beg such learned folk to listen,
To ask a smile, or coax a tear
Beneath these stoic lids to glisten ?
A SENTIMENT.
133
As well might some arterial thread
Ask the whole frame to feel it gushing,
"While throbbing fierce from heel to head
The vast aortic tide was rushing.
As well some hair-like nerve might strain
To set its special streamlet going,
While through the myriad-channelled
brain
The burning flood of thought was
flowing ;
Or trembling fibre strive to keep
The springing haunches gathered
shorter,
"While the scourged racer, leap on leap,
Was stretching through the last hot
quarter !
Ah me ! you take the bud that came
Self-sown in your poor garden's bor
ders,
And hand it to the stately dame
That florists breed for, all she orders ;
She thanks you it was kindly meant
(A pale affair, not worth the keep-
ing,}
Good morning ; and your bud is sent
To join the tea-leaves used for sweep-
ing.
Not always so, kind hearts and true,
For such I know are round me beat-
ing ;
Is not the bud I offer you,
Fresh gathered for the hour of meet-
ing,
Pale though its outer leaves may be,
Rose-red in all its inner petals,
Where the warm life we cannot see
The life of love that gave it settles.
We meet from regions far away,
Like rills from distant mountains
streaming ;
The sun is on Francisco's bay,
O'er Chesapeake the lighthouse gleam-
ing ;
While summer girds the still bayou
In chains of bloom, her bridal token,
Monadnock sees the sky grow blue,
His crystal bracelet yet unbroken.
Yet Nature bears the selfsame heart
Beneath her russet-mantled bosom,
As where with burning lips apart
She breathes, and white magnolias
blossom ;
The selfsame founts her chalice fill
With showery sunlight running over,
On fiery plain and frozen hill,
On myrtle -beds and fields of clover.
I give you Home ! its crossing lines
United in one golden suture,
And showing every day that shines
The present growing to the future,
A flag that bears a hundred stars
In one bright ring, with love for
centre,
Fenced round with white and crimson
bars,
No prowling treason dares to enter !
brothers, home may be a word
To make affection's living treasure
The wave an angel might have stirred
A stagnant pool of selfish pleasure ;
HOME ! It is where the day-star springs
And where the evening sun reposes,
Where'er the eagle spreads his wings,
From northern pines to southern
roses !
A SENTIMENT.
A TRIPLE health to Friendship, Sci-
ence, Art,
From heads and hands that own a com-
nion heart !
134
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Each in its turn the others' willing
slave,
Each in its season strong to heal and save.
Friendship's blind service, in the hour
of need,
Wipes the pale face and lets the vic-
tim bleed.
Science must stop to reason and explain ;
ART claps his finger on the streaming
vein.
But Art's brief memory fails the hand
at last ;
Then SCIENCE lifts the flambeau of the
past.
When both their equal impotence de-
plore,
When Learning sighs, and Skill can do
no more,
The tear of FRIENDSHIP pours its heav-
enly balm,
And soothes the pang no anodyne may
calm !
May 1, 1855.
THE NEW EDEN.
MEETING OF THE BERKSHIRE HORTI-
CULTURAL SOCIETY, AT STOCKBRIDGE,
SEPT. 13, 1854.
SCARCE could the parting ocean close,
Seamed by the Mayflower's cleaving
bow,
When o'er the rugged desert rose
The waves that tracked the Pilgrim's
plough.
Then sprang from many a rock-strewn
field
The rippling grass, the nodding grain,
Such growths as English meadows yield
To scanty sun and frequent rain.
But when the fiery days were done,
And Autumn brought his purple haze,
Then, kindling in the slanted sun,
The hillsides gleamed with golden
maize.
The food was scant, the fruits were few :
A red-streak glistening here and there;
Perchance in statelier precincts grew
Some stern old Puritanic pear.
Austere in taste, and tough at core,
Its unrelenting bulk was shed,
To ripen in the Pilgrim's, store
When all the summer sweets were fled.
Such was his lot, to front the storm
With iron heart and marble brow,
Nor ripen till his earthly form
Was cast from life's autumnal bough.
But ever on the bleakest rock
We bid the brightest beacon glow,
And still upon the thorniest stock
The sweetest roses love to blow.
So on our rude and wintry soil
We feed the kindling flame of art,
And steal the tropic's blushing spoil
To bloom on Nature's ice-clad heart.
See how the softening Mother's breast
Warms to her children's patient
wiles,
Her lips by loving Labor pressed
Break in a thousand dimpling smiles,
From when the flushing bud of June
Dawns with its first auroral hue,
Till shines the rounded harvest-moon,
And velvet dahlias drink the dew.
Nor these the only gifts she brings ;
Look where the laboring orchard
groans,
And yields its beryl-threaded strings
For chestnut burs and hemlock cones.
THE NEW EDEX.
135
Dear though the shadowy maple be,
And clearer still the whispering pine,
Dearest yon russet-laden tree
Browned by the heavy rubbing kine !
There childhood flung its rustling stone,
There venturous boyhood learned to
climb,
How well the early graft was known
Whose fruit was ripe ere harvest-time !
Nor be the Fleming's pride forgot,
With swinging drops and drooping
bells,
Freckled and splashed with streak and
spot,
On the warm-breasted, sloping swells ;
Nor Persia's painted garden-queen,
Frail Houri of the trellised wall,
Her deep-cleft bosom scarfed with
green,
Fairest to see, and first to fall.
When man provoked his mortal doom,
And Eden trembled as he fell,
When blossoms sighed their last per-
fume,
And branches waved their long fare-
well,
One sucker crept beneath the gate,
One seed was wafted o'er the wall,
One bough sustained his trembling
weight ;
These left the garden, these were all.
And far o'er many a distant zone
These wrecks of Eden still are flung :
The fruits that Paradise hath known
Are still in earthly gardens hung.
Yes, by our own unstoried stream
The pink-white apple-blossoms burst
That saw the young Euphrates gleam,
That Gihon's circling waters nursed.
For us the ambrosial pear displays
The wealth its arching branches hold,
Bathed by a hundred summery days
In floods of mingling fire and gold.
And here, where beauty's cheek of flame
With morning's earliest beam is fed,
The sunset-painted peach may claim
To rival its celestial red.
What though in some unmoistened
vale
The summer leaf grow brown and sere,
Say, shall our star of promise fail
That circles half the rolling sphere,
From beaches salt with bitter spray,
O'er prairies green with softest rain,
And ridges bright with evening's ray,
To rocks that shade the stormless
main ?
If by our slender- threaded streams
The blade and leaf and blossom die,
If, drained by noontide's parching
beams,
The milky veins of Nature dry,
See, with her swelling bosom bare,
Yon wild-eyed Sister in the West,
The ring of Empire round her hair,
The Indian's wampum on her breast !
We saw the August sun descend,
Day after day, with blood-red stain,
And the blue mountains dimly blend
With smoke-wreaths from the burning
plain ;
Beneath the hot Sirocco's wings
We sat and told the withering hours,
136
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Till Heaven unsealed its hoarded springs,
And bade them leap in flashing showers.
Yet in our Ishmael's thirst we knew
The mercy of the Sovereign hand
Would pour the fountain's quickening
dew
To feed some harvest of the land.
No flaming swords of wrath surround
Our second Garden of the Blest ;
It spreads beyond its rocky bound,
It climbs Nevada's glittering crest.
God keep the tempter from its gate !
God shield the children, lest they fall
From their stern fathers' free estate,
Till Ocean is its only wall !
SEMICENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF
THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY,
NEW YORK, DEC. 22, 1855.
NEW ENGLAND, we love thee ; no time
can erase
From the hearts of thy children the smile
on thy face.
'T is the mother's fond look of affection
and pride,
As she gives her fair son to the arms of
his bride.
His bride may be fresher in beauty's
young flower ;
She may blaze in the jewels she brings
with her dower.
But passion must chill in Time's pitiless
blast ;
The one that first loved us will love to
the last.
You have left the dear land of the lake
and the hill,
But its winds and its waters will talk
with you still.
"Forget not," they whisper, "your love
is our debt,"
And echo breathes softly, "We never
forget."
The banquet's gay splendors are gleam-
ing around,
But your hearts have flown back o'er the
waves of the Sound ;
They have found the brown home where
their pulses were born ;
They are throbbing their way through
the trees and the corn.
There are roofs you remember, their
glory is fled ;
There are mounds in the churchyard,
one sigh for the dead.
There are wrecks, there are ruins, all
scattered around ;
But Earth has no spot like that corner
of ground.
Come, let us be cheerful, remember
last night,
How they cheered us, and never mind
meant it all right ;
To-night, we harm nothing, we love
in the lump ;
Here 's a bumper to Maine, in the juice
of the pump !
Here 's to all the good people, wherever
they be,
Who have grown in the shade of the lib-
erty-tree ;
We all love its leaves, and its blossoms
and fruit,
But pray have a care of the fence round
its root.
We should like to talk big ; it 's a kind
of a right,
When the tongue has got loose and the
waistband grown tight ;
FAREWELL. FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB. 137
But, as pretty Miss Prudence remarked
to her beau,
On its own heap of compost, no biddy
should crow.
Enough ! There are gentlemen waiting
to talk,
Whose words are to mine as the flower
to the stalk.
Stand by your old mother whatever be-
fall ;
God bless all her children ! Good nigHt
to you all !
FAREWELL.
TO J. R. LOWELL.
FAREWELL, for the bark has her breast
to the tide,
And the rough arms of Ocean, are
stretched for his bride;
The winds from the mountain stream
over the bay;
One clasp of the hand, then away and
away !
I see the tall mast as it rocks by the
shore ;
The sun is declining, I see it once more ;
To-day like the blade in a thick-waving
field,
To-morrow the spike on a Highlander's
shield.
Alone, while the cloud pours its treach-
erous breath,
With the blue lips all round her whose
kisses are death ;
Ah, think not the breeze that is urging
her sail
Has left her unaided to strive with the
gale.
There are hopes that play round her,
like fires on the mast,
That will light the dark hour till its
danger has past ;
There are prayers that will plead with
the storm when it raves,
And whisper " Be still ! " to the turbu-
lent waves.
Nay, think not that Friendship has
called us in vain
To join the fair ring ere we break it
again ;
There is strength in its circle, you
lose the bright star,
But its sisters still chain it, though
shining afar.
I give you one health in the juice of the
vine,
The blood of the vineyard shall mingle
with mine ;
Thus, thus let us drain the last dew-
drops of gold,
As we empty our hearts of the blessings
they hold.
April 29, 1855.
FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS
CLUB.
THE mountains glitter in the snow
A thousand leagues asunder ;
Yet here, amid the banquet's glow,
I hear their voice of thunder ;
Each giant's ice-bound goblet clinks ;
A flowing stream is summoned;
Wachusett to Ben Nevis drinks ;
Monadnock to Ben Lomond !
Though years have clipped the eagle's
plume
That crowned the chieftain's bonnet,
The sun still sees the heather bloom,
The silver mists lie on it ;
138
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
"With tartan kilt and philibeg,
"What stride was ever bolder
Than his who showed the naked leg
Beneath the plaided shoulder?
The echoes sleep on Cheviot's hills,
That heard the bugles blowing
When down their sides the crimson rills
With mingled blood were flowing ;
The hunts where gallant hearts were
game,
The slashing on the border,
The raid that swooped with sword and
flame,
Give place to "law and order. ' ;
Not while the rocking steeples reel
With midnight tocsins ringing,
Not while the crashing war-notes peal,
God sets his poets singing ;
The bird is silent in the night,
Or shrieks a cry of warning
While fluttering round the beacon-
light,
But hear him greet the morning !
The lark of Scotia's morning sky !
Whose voice may sing his praises ?
With Heaven's own sunlight in his eye,
He walked among the daisies,
Till through the cloud of fortune's wrong
He soared to fields of glory ;
But left his land her sweetest song
And earth her saddest story.
'T is not the forts the builder piles
That chain the earth together ;
The wedded crowns, the sister isles,
Would laugh at such a tether ;
The kindling thought, the throbbing
words,
That set the pnlses beating,
Are stronger than the myriad swords
Of mighty armies meeting.
Thus while within the banquet glows,
Without, the wild winds whistle,
We drink a triple health, the Rose,
The Shamrock, and the Thistle !
Their blended hues shall never fade
Till War has hushed his cannon,
Close-twined as ocean-currents braid
The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon !
ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.
CELEBRATION OF THE MERCANTILE LI-
BRARY ASSOCIATION, FEB. 22, 1856.
WELCOME to the day returning,
Dearer still as ages flow,
While the torch of Faith is burning,
Long as Freedom's altars glow !
See the hero whom it gave us
Slumbering on a mother's breast ;
For the arm he stretched to save us,
Be its niorn forever blest !
Hear the tale of youthful glory,
While of Britain's rescued band
Friend and foe repeat the story,
Spread his fame o'er sea and land,
Where the red cross, proudly streaming,
Flaps above the frigate's deck,
Where the golden lilies, gleaming,
Star the watch-towers of Quebec.
Look ! The shadow on the dial
Marks the hour of deadlier strife ;
Days of terror, years of trial,
Scourge a nation into life.
Lo, the youth, become her leader !
All her baffled tyrants yield ;
Through his arm the Lord hath freed
her;
Crown him on the tented field !
Vain is Empire's mad temptation !
Not for him an earthly crown !
BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER.
130
He whose sword hath freed a nation !
Strikes the offered sceptre down.
See the throneless Conqueror seated,
Ruler by a people's choice ;
See the Patriot's task completed ;
Hear the Father's dying voice !
" By the name that you inherit,
By the sufferings you recall,
Cherish the fraternal spirit ;
Love your country first of all !
Listen not to idle questions
If its bands may be untied ;
Doubt the patriot whose suggestions
Strive a nation to divide ! "
Father ! We, whose ears have tingled
With the discord-notes of shame,
We, whose sires their blood have mingled
In the battle's thunder-flame,
Gathering, while this holy morning
Lights the land from sea to sea,
Hear thy counsel, heed thy warning ;
Trust us, while we honor thee !
BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER.
JANUARY 18, 1856.
WHEN life hath run its largest round
Of toil and triumph, joy and woe,
How brief a storied page is found
To compass all its outward show !
The world-tried sailor tires and droops ;
His flag is rent, his keel forgot ;
His farthest voyages seem but loops
That float from life's entangled knot.
But when within the narrow space
Some larger soul hath lived and
wrought,
Whose sight was open to embrace
The boundless realms of deed and
thought,
When, stricken by the freezing blast,
A nation's living pillars fall,
How rich the storied page, how vast,
A word, a whisper, can recall !
No medal lifts its fretted face,
Nor speaking marble cheats your eye,
Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,
A living image passes by :
A roof beneath the mountain pines ;
The cloisters of a hill-girt plain ;
The front of life's embattled lines ;
A mound beside the heaving main.
These are the scenes : a boy appears ;
Set life's round dial in the sun,
Count the swift arc of seventy years,
His frame is dust ; his task is done.
Yet pause upon the noontide hour,
Ere the declining sun has laid
His bleaching rays on manhood's power,
And look upon the mighty shade.
No gloom that stately shape can hide,
No change uncrown its brow ; behold !
Dark, calm, large -fronted, lightning-
eyed,
Earth has no double from its mould !
Ere from the fields by valor won
The battle-smoke had rolled away,
And bared the blood-red setting sun,
His eyes were opened on the day.
His land was but a shelving strip
Black with the strife that made it free ;
He lived to see its banners dip
Their fringes in the Western sea.
The boundless prairies learned his name,
His words the mountain echoes knew,
The Northern breezes swept his fame
From icy lake to warm bayou.
140
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
In toil he lived ; in peace he died ;
When life's full cycle was complete,
Put off his robes of power and pride,
And laid them at his Master's feet.
His rest is by the storm-swept waves
Whom life's wild tempests roughly
tried,
Whose heart was like the streaming caves
Of ocean, throbbing at his side.
Death's cold white hand is like the snow
Laid softly on the furrowed hill,
It hides the broken seams below,
And leaves the summit brighter
still.
In vain the envious tongue upbraids ;
His name a nation's heart shall keep
Till morning's latest sunlight fades
On the blue tablet of the deep !
THE VOICELESS. THE PROMISE.
141
II. -1857-1861.
THE VOICELESS.
WE count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers
slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to
number ?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win
them :
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them !
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad
story,
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory !
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews
weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pil-
low.
hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his cordial wine
Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing
presses,
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven !
THE TWO STREAMS.
BEHOLD the rocky wall
That down its sloping sides
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as
they fall,
In rushing river-tides !
Yon stream, whose sources run
Turned by a pebble's edge,
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun
Through the cleft mountain-ledge.
The slender rill had strayed,
But for the slanting stone,
To evening's ocean, with the tangled
braid
Of foam-flecked Oregon.
So from the heights of Will
Life's parting stream descends,
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,
Each widening torrent bends,
From the same cradle's side,
From the same mother's knee,
One to long darkness and the frozen tide,
One to the Peaceful Sea !
THE PROMISE.
NOT charity we ask,
Nor yet thy gift refuse ;
Please thy light fancy with the easy task
Only to look and choose.
The little-heeded toy
That wins thy treasured gold
May be the dearest memory, holiest joy,
Of coming years untold.
Heaven rains on every heart,
But there its showers divide,
142
SOXGS IN MANY KEYS.
The drops of mercy choosing as they part
The dark or glowing side.
One kindly deed may turn
The fountain of thy soul
To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er
thee burn
Long as its currents roll !
The pleasures thou hast planned,
Where shall their memory be
When the white angel with the freezing
hand
Shall sit and watch by thee ?
Living, thou dost not live,
If mercy's spring run dry ;
What Heaven has lent thee wilt thou
freely give,
Dying, thou shalt not die !
HE promised even so !
To thee His lips repeat,
Behold, the tears that soothed thy
sister's woe
Have washed thy Master's feet !
March 20, 1859.
AVIS.
I MAY not rightly call thy name,
Alas ! thy forehead never knew
The kiss that happier children claim,
Nor glistened with baptismal dew.
Daughter of want and wrong and woe,
I saw thee with thy sister-band,
Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing
flow
By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand.
" Avis !" With Saxon eye and cheek,
At once a woman and a child,
The saint uncrowned I came to seek
Drew near to greet us, spoke, and
smiled.
God gave that sweet sad smile she wore
All wrong to shame, all souls to win,
A heavenly sunbeam sent before
Her footsteps through a world of sin.
" And who is Avis ? " Hear the tale
The calm - voiced matrons gravely
tell,
The story known through all the vale
Where Avis and her sisters dwell.
With the lost children running wild,
Strayed from the hand of human care,
They find one little refuse child
Left helpless in its poisoned lair.
The primal mark is on her face,
The chattel-stamp, the pariah-stain
That follows still her hunted race,
The curse without the crime of Cain.
How shall our smooth-turned phrase re-
late
The little suffering outcast's ail ?
Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate
So turned the rose-wreathed revellers
Ah, veil the living death from sight
That wounds our beauty-loving eye !
The children turn in selfish fright,
The white-lipped nurses hurry by.
Take her, dread Angel ! Break in love
This bruised reed and make it thine !
No voice descended from above,
But Avis answered, "She is mine."
The task that dainty menials spurn
The fair young girl has made her own ;
Her heart shall teach, her hand shall
learn
The toils, the duties yet unknown.
So Love and Death in lingering strife
Stand face to face from day to day,
THE LIVING TEMPLE.
143
Still battling for the spoil of Life
While the slow seasons creep away.
Love conquers Death ; the prize is won ;
See to her joyous bosom pressed
The dusky daughter of the sun,
The bronze against the marble breast !
Her task is done ; no voice divine
Has crowned her deeds with saintly
fame.
No eye can see the aureole shine
That rings her brow with heavenly
flame.
Yet what has holy page more sweet,
Or what had woman's love more fair,
"When Mary clasped her Saviour's feet
With flowing eyes and streaming hair ?
Meek child of sorrow, w r alk unknown,
The Angel of that earthly throng,
And let thine image live alone
To hallow this unstudied song !
THE LIVING TEMPLE.
NOT in the world of light alone,
Where God has built his blazing throne
Nor yet alone in earth below,
With belted seas that come and go,
And endless isles of sunlit green,
Is all thy Maker's glory seen :
Look in upon thy wondrous frame,
Eternal wisdom still the same !
The smooth, soft air with pulse-like
waves
Flows murmuring through its hidden
caves,
Whose streams of brightening purple
rush,
Fired with a new r and livelier blush,
While all their burden of decay
The ebbing current steals away,
And red with Nature's flame they start
From the warm fountains of the heart.
No rest that throbbing slave may ask,
Forever quivering o'er his task,
While far and wide a crimson jet
Leaps forth to fill the woven net
Which in unnumbered crossing tides
The flood of burning life divides,
Then, kindling each decaying part,
Creeps back to find the throbbing heart.
But warmed with that unchanging flame
Behold the outward moving frame,
Its living marbles jointed strong
With glistening band and silvery thong,
And linked to reason's guiding reins
By myriad rings in trembling chains,
Each graven with the threaded zone
Which claims it as the master's own.
See how yon beam of seeming white
Is braided out of seven-hued light,
Yet in those lucid globes no ray
By any chance shall break astray.
Hark how the rolling surge of sound,
Arches and spirals circling round,
Wakes the hushed spirit through thine
ear
With music it is heaven to hear.
Then mark the cloven sphere that holds
All thought in its mysterious folds.
That feels sensations faintest thrill,
And flashes forth the sovereign will ;
Think on the stormy world that dwells
Locked in its dim and clustering cells !
The lightning gleams of power it sheds
Along its hollow glassy threads !
Father ! grant thy love divine
To make these mystic temples thine !
When wasting age and wearying strife
Have sapped the leaning walls of life,
144
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
When darkness gathers over all,
And the last tottering pillars fall,
Take the poor dust thy mercy warms,
And mould it into heavenly forms !
AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL
TO J. K. LOWELL.
WE will not speak of years to-night,
For what have years to bring
But larger floods of love and light,
And sweeter songs to sing ?
We will not drown in wordy praise
The kindly thoughts that rise ;
If Friendship own one tender phrase,
He reads it in our eyes.
We need not waste our school-boy art
To gild this notch of Time ;
Forgive me if my wayward heart
Has throbbed in artless rhyme.
Enough for him the silent grasp
That knits us hand in hand,
And he the bracelet's radiant clasp
That locks our circling band.
Strength to his hours of manly toil !
Peace to his starlit dreams !
Who loves alike the furrowed soil,
The music-haunted streams !
Sweet smiles to keep forever bright
The sunshine on his lips,
And faith that sees the ring of light
Round nature's last eclipse !
February 22, 1859.
A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE.
TO J. F. CLARKE.
WHO is the shepherd sent to lead,
Through pastures green, the Master's
sheep ?
What guileless " Israelite indeed "
The folded flock may watch and keep ?
He who with manliest spirit joins
The heart of gentlest human mould,
With burning light and girded loins,
To guide the flock, or watch the fold ;
True to all Truth the world denies,
Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin ;
Not always right in all men's eyes,
But faithful to the light within ;
Who asks no meed of earthly fame,
Who knows no earthly master's call,
Who hopes for man, through guilt and
shame,
Still answering, " God is over all" ;
Who makes another's grief his own,
Whose smile lends joy a double cheer ;
Where lives the saint, if such be
known ?
Speak softly, such an one is here !
faithful shepherd ! thou hast borne
The heat and burden of the day ;
Yet, o'er thee, bright with beams un-
shorn,
The sun still shows thine onward way.
To thee our fragrant love we bring,
In buds that April half displays,
Sweet first-born angels of the spring,
Caught in their opening hymn of
praise.
What though our faltering accents fail,
Our captives know their message well,
Our words unbreathed their lips exhale,
And sigh more love than ours can tell.
April 4, 1800.
THE GKAY CHIEF. THE LAST LOOK.
145
THE GRAY CHIEF.
FOR THE MEETING OF THE MASSACHU-
SETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY, 1859.
'T is sweet to fight our battles o'er,
And crown with honest praise
The gray old chief, who strikes no
more
The blow of better days.
Before the true and trusted sage
With willing hearts we bend,
When years have touched with hallowing
age
Our Master, Guide, and Friend.
For all his manhood's labor past,
For love and faith long tried,
His age is honored to the last,
Though strength and will have died.
But when, untamed by toil and strife,
Full in our front he stands,
The torch of light, the shield of life,
Still lifted in his hands,
No temple, though its walls resound
With bursts of ringing cheers,
Can hold the honors that surround
His manhood's twice-told years !
THE LAST LOOK.
W. W. SWAIN.
BEHOLD not him we knew !
This was the prison which his soul
looked through,
Tender, and brave, and true.
His voice no more is heard ;
And his dead name that dear familiar
word
Lies on our lips unstirred.
He spake with poet's tongue ;
Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was
strung :
He shall not die unsung !
Grief tried his love, and pain ;
And the long bondage of his martyr-
chain
Vexed his sweet soul, in vain !
It felt life's surges break,
As, girt with stormy seas, his island
lake,
Smiling while tempests wake.
How can we sorrow more ?
Grieve not for him whose heart had
gone before
To that untrodden shore !
Lo, through its leafy screen,
A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green,
Untrodden, half unseen !
Here let his body rest,
Where the calm shadows that his soul
loved best
May slide above his breast.
Smooth his uncurtained bed ;
And if some natural tears are softly shed,
It is not for the dead.
Fold the green turf aright
For the long hours before the morning's
light,
And say the last Good Night !
And plant a clear white stone
Close by those mounds which hold his
loved, his own,
Lonely, but not alone.
Here let him sleeping lie,
Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber
in the sky
And Death himself shall die !
NAUSHON, September 22, 1858.
146
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENT-
WORTH UPHAM, JR.
HE was all sunshine ; in his face
The very soul of sweetness shone ;
Fairest and gentlest of his race ;
None like him we can call our own.
Something there was of one that died
In her fresh spring-time long ago,
Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed,
Whose smile it was a bliss to know.
Something of her whose love imparts
Such radiance to her day's decline,
"We feel its twilight in our hearts
Bright as the earliest morning-shine.
Yet richer strains our eye could trace
That made our plainer mould more
fair, .
That curved the lip with happier grace,
That waved the soft and silken hair.
Dust unto dust ! the lips are still
That only spoke to cheer and bless ;
The folded hands lie white and chill
Unclasped from sorrow's last caress.
Leave him in peace ; he will not heed
These idle tears we vainly pour,
Give back to earth the fading weed
Of mortal shape his spirit wore.
"Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn,
My flower of love that falls half blown,
My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn,
A thorny path to walk alone ? "
Mary ! one who bore thy name,
Whose Friend and Master was divine,
Sat waiting silent till He came,
Bowed down in speechless grief like
thine.
1 ' Where have ye laid him ? " * ' Come, "
they say,
Pointing to where the loved one slept ;
Weeping, the sister led the way,
And, seeing Mary, '* Jesus wept."
He weeps with thee, with all that mourn,
And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes
Who knew all sorrows, woman-born,
Trust in his word ; thy dead shall rise !
April 15, 1860.
MARTHA.
DIED JANUARY 7, 1861.
SEXTON ! Martha 's dead and gone ;
Toll the bell ! toll the bell !
Her weary hands their labor cease ;
Good night, poor Martha, sleep in
peace !
Toll the bell !
Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ;
Toll the bell ! toll the bell !
For many a year has Martha said,
"I'm old and poor, would I were
dead ! "
Toll the bell !
Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ;
Toll the bell ! toll the bell !
She '11 bring no more, by day or night,
Her basket full of linen white.
Toll the bell !
Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ;
Toll the bell ! toll the bell !
'T is fitting she should lie below
A pure white sheet of drifted snow.
Toll the bell !
Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ;
Toll the bell ! toll the bell !
MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE.
147
Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light,
Where all the robes are stainless white.
Toll the bell !
MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HAR-
VARD COLLEGE.
1857.
I THANK you, MR. PRESIDENT, you 've
kindly broke the ice ;
Virtue should always be the first, I 'm
only SECOND VICE
(A vice is something with a screw that 's
made to hold its jaw
Till some old file has played away upon
an ancient saw).
Sweet brothers by the Mother's side,
the babes of days gone by,
All nurslings of her Juno breasts whose
milk is never dry,
We coine again, like half-grown boys,
and gather at her beck
About her knees, and on her lap, and
clinging round her neck.
We find her at her stately door, and in
her ancient chair,
Dressed in the robes of red and green
she always loved to wear.
Her eye has all its radiant youth, her
cheek its morning flame ;
We drop our roses as we go, hers flourish
still the same.
We have been playing many an hour,
and far away we 've strayed,
Some laughing in the cheerful sun, some
lingering in the shade ;
And some have tired, and laid them down
where darker shadows fall,
Dear as her loving voice may be, they
cannot hear its call.
What miles we 've travelled since we
shook the dew-drops from our shoes
We gathered on this classic green, so
famed for heavy dues !
How many boys have joined the game,
how many slipped away,
Since we 've been running up and down,
and having out our play !
One boy at work with book and brief,
and one with gown and band,
One sailing vessels on the pool, one dig-
ging in the sand,
One flying paper kites on change, one
planting little pills,
The seeds of certain annual flowers well
known as little bills.
What maidens met us on our way, and
clasped us hand in hand !
What cherubs, not the legless kind,
that fly, but never stand !
How many a youthful head we 've seen
put on its silver crown !
What sudden changes back again to
youth's empurpled brown !
But fairer sights have met our eyes, and
broader lights have shone,
Since others lit their midnight lamps
where once we trimmed our own ;
A thousand trains that flap the sky with
flags of rushing fire,
And, throbbing in the Thunderer's hand,
Thought's million-chorded lyre.
We 've seen the sparks of Empire fly
beyond the mountain bars,
Till, glittering o'er the Western wave,
they joined the setting stars ;
And ocean trodden into paths that
trampling giants ford,
To find the planet's vertebrae and sink
its spinal cord.
We Ve tried reform, and- chloroform,
and both have turned our brain ;
148
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
When France called up the photograph,
we roused the foe to pain ;
Just so those earlier sages shared the
chaplet of renown,
Hers sent a bladder to the clouds, ours
brought their lightning down.
We Ve seen the little tricks of life^ its
varnish and veneer,
Its stucco-fronts of character flake off
and disappear,
We Ve learned that oft the brownest
hands will heap the biggest pile,
And met with many a "perfect brick"
beneath a rimless " tile."
What dreams we 've had of deathless
name, as scholars, statesmen, bards,
While Fame, the lady with the trump,
held up her picture cards !
Till, having nearly played our game, she
gayly whispered, "Ah!
I said you should be something grand,
you '11 soon be grandpapa."
Well, well, the old have had their day,
the young must take their turn ;
There 's something always to forget, and
something still to learn ;
But how to tell what's old or young,
the tap-root from the sprigs,
Since Florida revealed her fount to
Ponce de Leon Twiggs ?
The wisest was a Freshman once, just
freed from bar and bolt,
As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as a
colt;
Don't be too savage with the boys,
the Primer does not say
The kitten ought to go to church because
the cat doth prey.
The law of merit and of age is not the
rule of three ;
Non constat that A. M. must prove as
busy as A. B.
When Wise the father tracked the son,
ballooning through the skies,
He taught a lesson to the old, go thou
and do like Wise !
Now then, old boys, and reverend youth,
of high of low degree,
Kemember how we only get one annual
out of three,
And such as dare to simmer down three
dinners into one
Must cut their salads mighty short, and
pepper well with fun.
I Ve passed my zenith long ago, it 's time
for me to set ;
A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am
lingering yet,
As sometimes in the blaze of day a nrilk-
and-watery moon
Stains with its dim and fading ray the
lustrous blue of noon.
Farewell ! yet let one echo rise to shake
our ancient hall ;
God save the Queen, whose throne is
here, the Mother of us all !
Till dawns the great commencement-day
on every shore and sea,
And " Expectantur " all mankind, to
take their last De'gree !
THE PARTING SONG.
FESTIVAL OF THE ALUMNI, 1857.
THE noon of summer sheds its ray
On Harvard's holy ground ;
The Matron calls, the sons obey,
And gather smiling round.
CHORUS.
Then old and young together stand,
The sunshine and the snow,
FOR THE SANITARY ASSOCIATION.
149
As heart to heart, and hand in hand,
We sing before we go !
Her hundred opening doors have swung ;
Through every storied hall
The pealing echoes loud have rung,
"Thrice welcome one and all ! "
Then old and young, etc.
We floated through her peaceful bay,
To sail life's stormy seas ;
But left our anchor where it lay
Beneath her green old trees.
Then old and young, etc.
As now we lift its lengthening chain,
That held us fast of old,
The rusted rings grow bright again,
Their iron turns to gold.
Then old and young, etc.
Though scattered ere the setting sun,
As leaves when wild winds blow,
Our home is here, are hearts are one,
Till Charles forgets to flow.
Then old and young, etc.
FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL
SANITARY ASSOCIATION.
1860.
WHAT makes the Healing Art divine ?
The bitter drug we buy and sell,
The brands that scorch, the blades that
shine,
The scars we leave, the " cures " we
tell?
Are these thy glories, holiest Art,
The trophies that adorn thee best,
Or but thy triumph's meanest part,
Where mortal weakness stands con-
fessed ?
We take the arms that Heaven supplies
For Life's long battle with Disease,
Taught by our various need to prize
Our frailest weapons, even these.
But ah ! when Science drops her shield
Its peaceful shelter proved in vain
And* bares her snow-white arm to wield
The sad, stern ministry of pain ;
When shuddering o'er the fount of life,
She folds her heaven-anointed wings,
To lift unmoved the glittering knife
That searches all its crimson springs ;
When, faithful to her ancient lore,
She thrusts aside her fragrant balm
For blistering juice, or cankering ore,
And tames them till they cure or
calm ;
When in her gracious hand are seen
The dregs and scum of earth and seas,
Her kindness counting all things clean
That lend the sighing sufferer ease ;
Though on the field that Death has won,
She save some stragglers in retreat;
These single acts of mercy done
Are but confessions of defeat.
What though our tempered poisons save
Some wrecks of life from aches and
ails ;
Those grand specifics Nature gave
Were never poised by weights or
scales !
God lent his creatures light and air,
And waters open to the skies ;
Man locks him in a stifling lair,
And wonders why his brother dies !
In vain our pitying tears are shed,
In vain we rear the sheltering pile
150
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Where Art weeds out from bed to bed
The plagues we planted by the mile !
Be that the glory of the past ;
With these our sacred toils begin :
So flies in tatters from its mast
The yellow flag of sloth and sin,
And lo ! the starry folds reveal
The blazoned truth we hold so dear :
To guard is better than to heal,
The shield is nobler than the spear !
FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELE-
BRATION.
JANUARY 25, 1859.
His birthday. Nay, we need not speak
The name each heart is beating,
Each glistening eye and flushing cheek
In light and flame repeating !
We come in one tumultuous tide,
One surge of wild emotion,
As crowding through the Frith of Clyde
Rolls in the Western Ocean ;
As when yon cloudless, quartered moon
Hangs o'er each stoned river,
The swelling breasts of Ayr and Boon
With sea-green wavelets quiver.
The century shrivels like a scroll,
The past becomes the present,
And face to face, and soul to soul,
We greet the monarch -peasant.
While Shenstone strained in feeble flights
With Corydon and Phillis,
While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's
heights
To snatch the Bourbon lilies,
Who heard the wailing infant's cry,
The babe beneath the shceling,
Whose song to-night in every sky
Will shake earth's starry ceiling,
Whose passion-breathing voice ascends
And floats like incense o'er us,
Whose ringing lay of friendship blends
With labor's anvil chorus ?
We love him, not for sweetest song,
Though never tone so tender ;
We love him, even in his wrong,
His wasteful self-surrender.
We praise him, not for gifts divine,
His Muse was born of woman,
His manhood breathes in every line,
Was ever heart more human ?
We love him, praise him, just for this :
In every form and feature,
Through wealth and want, through woe
and bliss,
He saw his fellow- creature !
No soul could sink beneath his love,
Not even angel blasted ;
No mortal power could soar above
The pride that all outlasted !
Ay ! Heaven had set one living man
Beyond the pedant's tether,
His virtues, frailties, HE may scan,
Who weighs them all together !
I fling my pebble on the cairn
Of him, though dead, undying ;
Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn
Beneath her daisies lying.
The waning suns, the wasting globe,
Shall spare the minstrel's story,
The centuries weave his purple robe,
The mountain-mist of glory !
BOSTON COMMON. THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA.
151
BOSTON COMMON.-THREE PICTURES.
FOR THE FAIR IN AID OF THE FUND
TO PROCURE BALL'S STATUE OF WASH-
INGTON.
1630.
ALL overgrown with bush and fern,
And straggling clumps of tangled
trees,
"With trunks that lean and boughs that
turn,
Bent eastward by the mastering
breeze,
"With spongy bogs that drip and fill
A yellow pond with muddy rain,
Beneath the shaggy southern hill
Lies wet and low the Shawmut plain.
And hark ! the trodden branches crack ;
A crow flaps off with startled scream ;
A straying woodchuck canters back ;
A bittern rises from the stream ;
Leaps from his lair a frightened deer ;
An otter plunges in the pool ;
Here comes old Shawmut's pioneer,
The parson on his brindled bull !
1774.
THE streets are thronged with trampling
feet,
The northern hill is ridged with graves,
But night and morn the drum is beat
To frighten down the " rebel knaves."
The stones of King Street still are red,
And yet the bloody red-coats come :
I hear their pacing sentry's tread,
The click of steel, the tap of drum,
And over all the open green,
"Where grazed of late the harmless
kine,
The cannon's deepening ruts are seen,
The war-horse stamps, the bayonets
shine.
The clouds are dark with crimson rain
Above the murderous hirelings' den,
And soon their whistling showers shall
stain
The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men.
AROUND the green, in morning light,
The spired and palaced summits blaze,
And, suulike, from her Beacon-height
The dome-crowned city spreads her
rays ;
They span the waves, they belt the plains,
They skirt the roads with bands of
white,
Till with a flash of gilded panes
Yon farthest hillside bounds the sight.
Peace, Freedom, "Wealth ! no fairer view,
Though with the wild-bird's restless
wings
We sailed beneath the noontide's blue
Or chased the moonlight's endless
rings !
Here, fitly raised by grateful hands
His holiest memory to recall,
The Hero's, Patriot's image stands ;
He led our sires who won them all !
November 14, 1859.
THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA.
A NIGHTMARE DREAM BY DAYLIGHT.
Do you know the Old Man of the Sea,
of the Sea ?
Have you met with that dreadful old
man ?
If you have n't been caught, you will be,
you will be ;
For catch you he must and he can.
He does n't hold on by your throat, by
your throat,
As of old in the terrible tale ;
But he grapples you tight by the coat)
by the coat,
Till its buttons and button-holes fail.
152
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
There 's the charm of a snake in his eye,
in his eye,
And a polypus-grip in his hands ;
You cannot go back, nor get by, nor get
by,
If you look at the spot where he
stands.
0, you 're grabbed ! See his claw on
your sleeve, on your sleeve !
It is Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea !
You 're a Christian, no doubt you be-
lieve, you believe :
You 're a martyr, whatever you be !
Is the breakfast-hour past ? They
must wait, they must wait,
While the coffee boils sullenly down,
While the Johnny-cake burns on the
grate, on the grate,
And the toast is done frightfully
brown.
Yes, your dinner will keep ; let it
cool, let it cool,
And Madam may worry and fret,
And children half-starved go to school,
go to school ;
He can't think of sparing you yet.
Hark ! the bell for the train ! " Come
along ! Come along !
For there isn't a second to lose."
"ALL ABOARD!" (He holds on.) "Fsht!
ding-dong ! Fsht ! ding-dong ! "
You can follow on foot, if you choose.
There 's a maid with a cheek like a
peach, like a peach,
That is waiting for you in the
church ;
But he clings to your side like a leech,
like a leech,
And you leave your lost bride in the
lurch.
There 's a babe in a fit, hurry
quick ! hurry quick !
To the doctor's as fast as you can !
The baby is off, while you stick, while
you stick,
In the grip of the dreadful Old Man !
I have looked on the face of the Bore,
of the Bore ;
The voice of the Simple I know ;
I have welcomed the Flat at my door, at
my door ;
I have sat by the side of the Slow ;
I have walked like a lamb by the friend,
by the friend,
That stuck to my skirts like a bur ;
I have borne the stale talk without end,
without end,
Of the sitter whom nothing could stir :
But my hamstrings grow loose, and I
shake, and I shake,
At the sight of the dreadful Old Man ;
Yea, I quiver and quake, and I take,
and I take,,
To my legs with what vigor I can !
the dreadful Old Man of the Sea, of
the Sea !
He 's come back like the Wandering
Jew !
He has had his cold claw upon me, upon.
me,
And be sure that he '11 have it on you !
INTERNATIONAL ODE.
OUR FATHERS' LAND. 1
GOD bless our Fathers' Land !
Keep her in heart and hand
One with our own !
1 Sung in unison by twelve hundred chil-
dren of the public schools, at the visit of the
Prince of Wales to Boston, October 18, 1860.
Air, "God save the Queen."
VIVE LA FRANCE. BROTHER JONATHANS LAMENT.
153
From all her foes defend,
Be her brave People's Friend,
On all her realms descend,
Protect her Throne !
Father, with loving care
Guard Thou her kingdom's Heir,
Guide all his ways :.
Thine arm his shelter be,
From him by land and sea
Bid storm and danger flee,
Prolong his days !
Lord, let War's tempest cease,
Fold the whole Earth in peace
Under thy wings !
Make all Thy nations one,
All hearts beneath the sun,
Till Thou shalt reign alone,
Great King of kings !
VIVE LA FRANCE!
A SENTIMENT OFFERED AT THE DINNER
TO H. I. H. THE PRINCE NAPOLEON, AT
THE REVERE HOUSE, SEPT. 25, 1861.
THE land of sunshine and of song !
Her name your hearts divine ;
To her the banquet's vows belong
Whose breasts have poured its
wine ;
Our trusty friend, our true ally
Through varied change and chance :
So, fill your flashing goblets high,
I give you, VIVE LA FRANCE !
Above our hosts in triple folds
The selfsame colors spread,
Where Valor's faithful arm upholds
The blue, the white, the red ;
Alike each nation's glittering crest
Reflects the morning's glance,
Twin eagles, soaring east and west :
Once more, then, VIVE LA FRANCE !
Sister in trial ! who shall count
Thy generous friendship's claim,
Whose blood ran mingling in the fount
That gave our land its name,
Till Yorktown saw in blended line
Our conquering arms advance,
And victory's double garlands twine
Our banners ? VIVE LA FRANCE !
land of heroes ! in our need
One gift from Heaven we crave
To stanch these wounds that vainly
bleed,
The wise to lead the brave !
Call back one Captain of thy past
From glory's marble trance,
Whose name shall be a bugle-blast
To rouse us ! VIVE LA FRANCE !
Pluck Conde's baton from the trench,
Wake up stout Charles Martel,
Or find some woman's hand to clench
The sword of La Pucelle !
Give us one hour of old Turenne,
One lift of Bayard's lance,
Nay, call Marengo's Chief again
To lead us ! VIVE LA FRANCE !
Ah, hush ! our welcome Guest shall hear
But sounds of peace and joy ;
No angry echo vex thine ear,
Fair Daughter of Savoy !
Once more ! the land of arms and arts,
Of glory, grace, romance ;
Her love lies warm in all our hearts :
God bless her ! VIVE LA FRANCE !
BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR
SISTER CAROLINE.
SHE has gone, she has left us in pas-
sion and pride,
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our
side !
154
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
She has torn her own star from our fir-
mament's glow,
And turned on her brother the face of a
foe!
Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
"We can never forget that our hearts
have been one,
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's
name,
From the fountain of blood with the fin-
ger of flame !
You were always too ready to fire at a
touch ;
But we said, " She is hasty, she does
not mean much."
We have scowled, when you uttered
some turbulent threat ;
But Friendship still whispered, "For-
give and forget ! "
Has our love all died out ? Have its
altars grown cold ?
Has the curse come at last which the
fathers foretold?
Then Nature must teach us the strength
of the chain
That her petulant children would sever
in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are
gorged with their spoil,
Till the harvest grows black as it rots
in the soil,
Till the wolves and the catamounts
troop from their caves,
And the shark tracks the pirate, the
lord of the waves :
In vain is the strife ! When its fury is
past,
Their fortunes must flow in one channel
at last,
As the torrents that rush from the
mountains of snow
Koll mingled in peace through the val-
leys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and
sky:
Man breaks not the medal, when God
cuts the die !
Though darkened with sulphur, though
cloven with steel,
The blue arch will brighten, the waters
will heal !
Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
There are battles with Fate that can
never be won !
The star-flowering banner must never
be furled,
For its blossoms of light are the hope of
the world !
Go, then, our rash sister ! afar and aloof,
Run wild in the sunshine away from our
roof;
But when your heart aches and your feet
have grown sore,
Remember the pathway that leads to our
door !
March 25, 1861.
UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAM-
BRIDGE.
April 27, 1861.
EIGHTY years have passed, and more,
Since under the brave old tree
Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore
They would follow the sign their ban-
ners bore,
And fight till the land was free.
Half of their work was done,
Half is left to do,
FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN. ARMY HYMN.
155
Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexing-
ton !
When the battle is fought and won,
What shall be told of you ?
Hark ! 'tis the south-wind moans,
Who are the martyrs down ?
Ah, the marrow was true in your chil-
dren's bones
That sprinkled with blood the cursed
stones
Of the murder-haunted town !
What if the storm-clouds blow ?
What if the green leaves fall ?
Better the crashing tempest's throe
Than the army of worms that gnawed
below ;
Trample them one and all !
Then, when the battle is won,
And the land from traitors free,
Our children shall tell of the strife begun
When Liberty's second April sun
Was bright on our brave old tree !
FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN.
LAND where the banners wave last in
the sun,
Blazoned with star-clusters, many in one,
Floating o'er prairie and mountain and
sea ;
Hark ! 't is the voice of thy children to
thee!
Here at thine altar our vows we re-
new
Still in thy cause to be loyal and
true,
True to thy flag on the field and the
wave,
Living to honor it, dying to save !
Mother of heroes ! if perfidy's blight
Fall on a star in thy garland of light,
Sound but one bugle-blast! Lo ! at the
sign
Armies all panoplied wheel into line !
Hope of the world ! thou hast broken its
chains,
Wear thy bright arms while a tyrant
remains,
Stand for the right till the nations shall
own
Freedom their sovereign, with Law for
her throne !
Freedom ! sweet Freedom ! our voices
resound,
Queen by God's blessing, unsceptred, un-
crowned !
Freedom, sweet Freedom, our pulses
repeat,
Warm with her life-blood, as long as
they beat !
Fold the broad banner-stripes over her
breast,
Crown her with star-jewels Queen of the
West!
Earth for her heritage, God for her
friend,
She shall reign over us, world without
end !
ARMY HYMN.
"Old Hundred."
LORD of Hosts ! Almighty King !
Behold the sacrifice we bring !
To every arm Thy strength impart,
Thy spirit shed through every heart !
Wake in our breasts the living fires,
The holy faith that warmed our sires ;
Thy hand hath made our Nation free ;
To die for her is serving Thee.
156
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Be Thou a pillared flame to show
The midnight snare, the silent foe ;
And when the battle thunders loud,
Still guide us in its moving cloud.
God of all Nations ! Sovereign Lord !
In Thy dread name we draw the sword,
We lift the starry flag on high
That fills with light our stormy sky.
From treason's rent, from murder's stain,
Guard Thou its folds till Peace shall
reign,
Till fort and field, till shore and sea,
Join our loud anthem, PKAISE TO THEE!
PARTING HYMN.
"Dundee."
FATHER of Mercies, Heavenly Friend,
We seek Thy gracious throne ;
To Thee our faltering prayers ascend,
Our fainting hearts are known !
From blasts that chill, from suns that
smite,
From every plague that harms ;
In camp and march, in siege and fight,
Protect our men-at-arms !
Though from our darkened lives they
take
What makes our life most dear,
We yield them for their country's sake
With no relenting tear.
Our blood their flowing veins will shed,
Their wounds our breasts will share ;
0, save us from the woes we dread,
Or grant us strength to bear !
Let each unhallowed cause that brings
The stern destroyer cease,
Thy flaming angel fold his wings,
And seraphs whisper Peace !
Thine are the sceptre and the sword,
Stretch forth Thy mighty hand,
Reign Thou our kingless nation's Lord,
Rule Thou our throneless land !
THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY.
WHAT flower is this that greets the morn,
Its hues from Heaven so freshly born ?
With burning star and flaming band
It kindles all the sunset land :
tell us what its name may be,
Is this the Flower of Liberty ?
It is the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty !
In savage Nature's far abode
Its tender seed our fathers sowed ;
The storm- winds rocked its swelling bud,
Its opening leaves were streaked with
blood,
Till lo ! earth's tyrants shook to see
The full-blown Flower of Liberty !
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty !
Behold its streaming rays unite,
One mingling flood of braided light,
The red that fires the Southern rose,
With spotless white from Northern snows,
And, spangled o'er its azure, see
The sister Stars of Liberty !
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty !
The blades of heroes fence it round,
Where'er it springs is holy ground ;
From tower and dome its glories spread ;
It waves where lonely sentries tread ;
It makes the land as ocean free,
And plants an empire on the sea !
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty !
Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,
Shall ever float on dome and tower,
THE SWEET LITTLE MAN.
157
To all their heavenly colors true,
In blackening frost or crimson dew,
And God love us as we love thee,
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty !
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry FLOWER OF LIBERTY !
THE SWEET LITTLE MAN.
DEDICATED TO THE STAY-AT-HOME
RANGERS.
Now, while our soldiers are fighting our
battles,
Each at his post to do all that he can,
Down among rebels and contraband
chattels,
What are you doing, my sweet little
man ?
All the brave boys under canvas are
sleeping,
All of them pressing to march with
the van,
Far from the home where their sweet-
hearts are weeping ;
What are you waiting for, sweet little
man ?
You with the terrible warlike mus-
taches,
Fit for a colonel or chief of a clan,
You with the waist made for sword-belts
and sashes,
Where are your shoulder-straps, sweet
little man ?
Bring him the buttonless garment of
woman !
Cover his face lest it freckle and tan ;
Muster the Apron-string Guards on the
Common,
That is the corps for the sweet little
man !
Give him for escort a file of young misses,
Each of them armed with a deadly
rattan ;
They shall defend him from laughter
and hisses,
Aimed by low boys at the sweet little
man.
All the fair maidens about him shall
cluster,
Pluck the white feathers from bonnet
and fan,
Make him a plume like a turkey-wing
duster,
That is the crest for the sweet little
man !
0, but the Apron-string Guards are the
fellows !
Drilling each day since our troubles
began,
" Handle your walking - sticks ! "
"Shoulder umbrellas ! "
That is the style for the sweet little
man.
Have we a nation to save ? In the first
place
Saving ourselves is the sensible
plan,
Surely the spot where there *s shooting 's
the worst place
Where I can stand, says the sweet little
man.
Catch me confiding my person with
strangers !
Think how the cowardly Bull-Run-
ners ran !
In the brigade of the Stay-at-home
Rangers
Marches my corps, says the sweet
little man.
Such was the stuff of the Malakoff-
takcrs,
158
SONGS IN MANY KEYS.
Sucli were the soldiers that scaled
the Redan ;
Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty
Quakers,
Brave not the wrath of the sweet
little man !
Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery
maidens !
Sauve qui pent I Bridget, and right
about ! Ann ;
Fierce as a shark in a school of men-
hadens,
See him advancing, the sweet little
man !
When the red flails of the battle-field's
threshers
Beat out the continent's wheat from
its bran,
While the wind scatters the chaffy
seceshers,
What will become of our sweet little
man ?
When the brown soldiers come back
from the borders,
How will he look while his features
they scan ?
How will he feel when he gets marching
orders,
Signed by his lady love ? sweet little
man !
Fear not for him, though the rebels ex-
pect him,
Life is too precious to shorten its span ;
Woman her broomstick shall raise to
protect him,
Will she not fight for the sweet little
man !
Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at-
home Ranger !
Blow the great fish-horn and beat the
big pan !
First in the field that is farthest from
danger,
Take your white-feather plume, sweet
little man !
UNION AND LIBERTY.
FLAG of the heroes who left us their
Borne through their battle-fields' thun-
der and flame,
Blazoned in song and illumined in story,
Wave o'er us all who inherit their
fame !
Up with our banner bright,
Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from moun-
tain to shore,
While through the sounding sky
Loud rings the Nation's cry,
UNION AND LIBERTY ! ONE EVER-
MORE !
Light of our firmament, guide of our
Nation,
Pride of her children, and honored
afar,
Let the wide beams of thy full constel-
lation
Scatter each cloud that would darken
a star !
Up with our banner bright, etc.
Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail
thee,
Bearing the standard of Liberty's
van ?
Think not the God of thy fathers shall
fail thee,
Striving with men for the birthright
of man !
Up with our banner bright, etc.
Yet if, by madness and treachery
bli-hted,
UNION AND LIBERTY.
159
Dawns the dark hour when the sword
thou must draw,
Then with the arms of thy millions
united,
Smite the bold traitors to Freedom
and Law !
Up with our banner bright, etc.
Lord of the Universe ! shield us and
guide us,
Trusting thee always, through shadow
and sun !
Thou hast united us, who shall divide
us?
Keep us, keep us the MANY IN
ONE!
Up with our banner bright,
Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from moun-
tain to shore,
While through the sounding sky
Loud rings the Nation's cry,
UNION AND LIBERTY ! ONE EVER-
MORE !
POEMS
FROM THE
AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
1857-1858.
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.
THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets
feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled
wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren
sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun
their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl !
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to
dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing
shell,
Before thee lies revealed,
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt
unsealed !
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil ;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the
Stole with soft step its shining archway
through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and
knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought
by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn !
From thy dead lips a clearer note is
born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed
horn !
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I
hear a voice that sings :
Build thee more stately mansions, my
soul,
As the swift seasons roll !
Leave thy low-vaulted past !
Let each new temple, nobler than the
last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more
vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's
unresting sea !
162 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
SUN AND SHADOW.
As I look from the isle, o'er its billows
of green,
To the billows of foam-crested blue,
Yon bark, that afar in the distance is
seen,
Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue :
Now dark in the shadow, she scatters
the spray
As the chaff in the stroke of the flail ;
Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on
her way,
The sun gleaming bright on her sail.
Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to
shun,
Of breakers that whiten and roar ;
How r little he cares, if in shadow or sun
They see him who gaze from the shore !
He looks to the beacon that looms from
the reef,
To the rock that is under his lee,
As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-
wafted leaf,
O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.
Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted
caves
Where life and its ventures are laid,
The dreamers who gaze while we battle
the waves
May see us in sunshine or shade ;
Yet true to our course, though the
shadows grow dark,
We '11 trim our broad sail as before,
And stand by the rudder that governs
the bark,
Nor ask how we look from the shore !
THE TWO ARMIES.
As Life's unending column pours,
Two marshalled hosts are seen,
Two armies on the trampled shores
That Death flows black between.
One marches to the drum-beat's roll,
The wide-mouthed clarion's bray,
And bears upon a crimson scroll,
" Our glory is to slay."
One moves in silence by the stream,
With sad, yet watchful eyes,
Calm as the patient planet's gleam
That walks the clouded skies.
Along its front no sabres shine,
No blood-red pennons wave ;
Its banner bears the single line,
" Our duty is to save."
For those no death-bed's lingering shade ;
At Honor's trumpet-call,
With knitted brow and lifted blade
In Glory's arms they fall.
For these no clashing falchions bright,
No stirring battle-cry ;
The bloodless stabber calls by night,
Each answers, " Here am I ! "
For those the sculptor's laurelled bust,
The builder's marble piles,
The anthems pealing o'er their dust
Through long, cathedral aisles.
For these the blossom-sprinkled turf
That floods the lonely graves
When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf
In flowery-foaming waves.
Two paths lead upward from below,
And angels wait above,
Who count each burning life-drop's flow,
Each falling tear of Love.
Though from the Hero's bleeding breast
Her pulses Freedom drew,
Though the white lilies in her crest
Sprang from that scarlet dew,
MUSA.
163
While Valor's haughty champions wait
Till all their scars are shown,
Love walks unchallenged through the
gate,
To sit beside the Throne !
MUSA.
MY lost beauty ! hast thou folded
quite
Thy wings of morning light
Beyond those iron gates
Where Life crowds hurrying to the hag-
gard Fates,
And Age upon his mound of ashes waits
To chill our fiery dreams,
Hot from the heart of youth plunged in
his icy streams?
Leave me not fading in these weeds of
care,
Whose flowers are silvered hair !
Have I not loved thee long,
Though my young lips have often done
thee wrong,
And vexed thy heaven-tuned ear with
careless song ?
Ah, wilt thou yet return,
Bearing thy rose-hued torch, and bid
thine altar burn ?
Come to me ! I will flood thy silent
shrine
With my soul's sacred wine,
And heap thy marble floors
As the wild spice-trees waste their fra-
grant stores,
In leafy islands walled with madrepores
And lapped in Orient seas,
When all their feathery palms toss,
plume-like, in the breeze.
Come to me ! thou shalt feed on hon-
eyed words,
Sweeter than song of birds ;
No wailing bulbul's throat,
No melting dulcimer's melodious note
When o'er the midnight wave its mur-
murs float,
Thy ravished sense might soothe
With flow so liquid-soft, with strain so
velvet-smooth.
Thou shalt be decked with jewels, like
a queen,
Sought in those bowers of green
Where loop the clustered vines
And the close-clinging dulcamara 1
twines,
Pure pearls of Maydew where the moon-
light shines,
And Summer's fruited gems,
And coral pendants shorn from Autumn's
berried stems.
Sit by me drifting on the sleepy waves,
Or stretched by grass-grown graves,
Whose gray, high-shouldered stones,
Carved with old names Life's time-worn
roll disowns,
Lean, lichen-spotted, o'er the crumbled
bones
Still slumbering where they lay
While the sad Pilgrim watched to scare
the wolf away.
Spread o'er my couch thy visionary
wing!
Still let me dream and sing,
Dream of that winding shore
Where scarlet cardinals bloom for me
no more,
The stream with heaven beneath its
liquid floor,
And clustering nenuphars
Sprinkling its mirrored blue like golden-
chaliced stars !
l The " bitter-sweet " of New England Js the
Celastrus scandens, " Bourreau des arbres"
of the Canadian French.
164 POEMS FKOM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Come while their balms the linden-blos-
soms shed !
Come while the rose is red,
While blue-eyed Summer smiles
On the green ripples round yon sunken
piles
Washed by the moon-wave warm from
Indian isles,
And on the sultry air
The chestnuts spread their palms like
holy men in prayer !
for thy burning lips to fire my brain
With thrills of wild, sweet pain !
On life's autumnal blast,
Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passion-
flowers are cast,
Once loving thee, we love thee to the
last !
Behold thy new-decked shrine,
And hear once more the voice that
breathed "Forever thine!"
A PARTING HEALTH.
TO J. L. MOTLEY.
YES, we knew we must lose him,
though friendship may claim
To blend her green leaves with the lau-
rels of fame ;
Though fondly, at parting, we call him
our own,
'T is the whisper of love when the bugle
has blown.
As the rider that rests with the spur on
his heel,
As the guardsman that sleeps in his
corselet of steel,
As the archer that stands with his shaft
on the string,
He stoops from his toil to the garland
we briupr.
What pictures yet slumber unborn in
his loom,
Till their warriors shall breathe and
their beauties shall bloom,
While the tapestry lengthens the life-
glowing dyes
That caught from our sunsets the stain
of their skies !
In the alcoves of death, in the charnels
of time,
Where flit the gaunt spectres of passion
and crime,
There are triumphs untold, there are
martyrs unsung,
There are heroes yet silent to speak with
his tongue !
Let us hear the proud story which time
has bequeathed !
From lips that are warm with the free-
dom they breathed !
Let him summon its tyrants, and tell us
their doom,
Though he sweep the black past like
Van Tromp with his broom !
* * *
The dream flashes by, for the west-winds
awake
On pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain
and lake,
To bathe the swift bark, like a sea-
girdled shrine,
With incense they stole from the rose
and the pine.
So fill a bright cup with the sunlight
that gushed
When the dead summer's jewels were
trampled and crushed :
THE TRUE KNIGHT OF LEARNING,
the world holds him dear,
Love bless him, Joy crown him, God
speed his career !
1857.
WHAT WE ALL THINK. SPRING HAS COME.
165
WHAT WE ALL THINK.
THAT age was older once than now,
In spite of locks untimely shed,
Qr silvered on the youthful brow ;
That babes make love and children
wed.
That sunshine had a heavenly glow,
Which faded with those "good old
days "
When winters came with deeper snow,
And autumns with a softer haze.
That mother, sister, wife, or child
The "best of women" each has
known.
Were school-boys ever half so wild ?
How young the grandpapas have
grown !
That but for this our souls were free,
And but for that our lives were blest ;
That in some season yet to be
Our cares will leave us time to rest.
Whene'er we groan with ache or pain,
Some common ailment of the race,
Though doctors think the matter
plain,
That ours is "a peculiar case."
That when like babes with lingers burned
We count one bitter maxim more,
Our lesson all the world has learned,
And men are wiser than before.
That when we sob o'er fancied woes,
The angels hovering overhead
Count every pitying drop that flows,
And love us for the tears we shed.
That when we stand with tearless eye
And turn the beggar from our door,
They still approve us when we sigh,
" Ah, had I but one tJwusand more I "
Though temples crowd the crumbled
brink
O'erhanging truth's eternal flow,
Their tablets bold with what ice think,
Their echoes dumb to ivhat ice know ;
That one unquestioned text we read,
All doubt beyond, all fear above,
Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed
Can burn or blot it : GOD is LOVE !
SPRING HAS COME.
I NTH A MUROS.
THE sunbeams, lost for half a year,
Slant through my pane their morning
rays ;
For dry northwesters cold and clear,
The east blows in its thin blue haze.
And first the snowdrop's bells are seen,
Then close against the sheltering wall
The tulip's horn of dusky green,
The peony's dark unfolding ball.
The golden-chaliced crocus burns ;
The long narcissus-blades appear ;
The cone-beaked hyacinth returns
To light her blue-flamed chandelier.
The willow's whistling lashes, wrung
By the wild winds of gusty March,
With sallow leaflets lightly strung,
Are swaying by the tufted larch.
The elms have robed their slender spray
With full-blown flower and embryo
leaf ;
Wide o'er the clasping arch of day
Soars like a cloud their hoary chief.
See the proud tulip's flaunting cup,
That flames in glory for an hour,
Behold it withering, then look up,
How meek the forest monarch's flower!
166 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
When wake the violets, Winter dies ;
When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is
near ;
When lilacs blossom, Summer cries,
" Bud, little roses ! Spring is here ! "
The windows blush with fresh bouquets,
Cut with the May-dew on their lips ;
The radish all its blooin displays,
Pink as Aurora's finger-tips.
Nor less the flood of light that showers
On beauty's changed corolla-shades,
The walks are gay as bridal bowers
With rows of many-petalled maids.
The scarlet shell-fish click and clash
In the blue barrow where they slide ;
The horseman, proud of streak and
splash,
Creeps homeward from his morning
ride.
Here comes the dealer's awkward string,
With neck in rope and tail in knot,
Rough colts, with careless country-swing,
In lazy walk or slouching trot.
Wild filly from the mountain-side,
Doomed to the close and chafing thills,
Lend me thy long, untiring stride
To seek with thee thy western hills !
I hear the whispering voice of Spring,
The thrush's trill, the robin's cry,
Like some poor bird with prisoned wing
That sits and sings, but longs to fly.
for one spot of living green,
One little spot where leaves can
grow,
To love unblamed, to walk unseen,
To dream above, to sleep below !
PROLOGUE.
A PROLOGUE ? Well, of course the ladies
know ;
I have my doubts. No matter, here
we go !
What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor
teach :
Pro means beforehand ; logos stands for
speech.
'T is like the harper's prelude on the
strings,
The prima donna's courtesy ere she
sings :
Prologues in metre are to other pros
As worsted stockings are to engine-hose.
"The world's a stage," as Shake-
speare said, one day;
The stage a world was what he meant
to say.
The outside world 's a blunder, that is
clear ;
The real world that Nature meant is here.
Here every foundling finds its lost
mamma ;
Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern
papa ;
Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts
are paid,
The cheats are taken in the traps they
laid ;
One after one the troubles all are past
Till the fifth act comes right side up at
last,
When the 3 r oung couple, old folks,
rogues, and all,
Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall.
Here suffering virtue ever finds relief,
And black-browed ruffians always come
to grief.
When the lorn damsel, with a frantic
screech,
And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach,
Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" and
drops upon her knees
PROLOGUE.
167
On the green baize, beneath the
(canvas) trees,
See to her side avenging Valor fly :
"Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terrai-
torr, yield or die ! "
When the poor hero flounders in despair,
Some dear lost uncle turns up million-
naire,
Clasps the young scrapegrace with pater-
nal joy,
Sobs on his neck, "My boy/ MY BOY! !
MY BOY!!!"
Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world
to-night,
Of love that conquers in disaster's spite.
Ladies, attend ! While woful cares and
doubt
Wrong the soft passion in the world
without,
Though fortune scowl, though prudence
interfere,
One thing is certain : Love will triumph
here !
Lords of creation, whom your ladies
rule,
The world's great masters, when you 're
out of school,
Learn the brief moral of our evening's
play:
Man has his will, but woman has her
way !
While man's dull spirit toils in smoke
and fire,
Woman's swift instinct threads the elec-
tric wire,
The magic bracelet stretched beneath
the waves
Beats the black giant with his score of
slaves.
All earthly powers confess your sov-
ereign art
But that one rebel, woman's wilful
heart.
All foes you master, but a woman's wit
Lets daylight through you ere you know
you 're hit.
So, just to picture what her art can do,
Hear an old story, made as good as new.
Rudolph, professor of the headsman's
trade,
Alike was famous for his arm and blade.
One day a prisoner Justice had to kill
Knelt at the block to test the artist's
skill.
Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and
shaggy-browed ,
Rudolph the headsman rose above the
crowd.
His falchion lighted with a sudden
gleam,
As the pike's armor flashes in the
stream.
He sheathed his blade ; he turned as
if to go ;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the
blow.
" Why strikest not ? Perform thy mur-
derous act,"
The prisoner said. (His voice was
slightly cracked.)
"Friend, I have struck," the artist
straight replied ;
"Wait but one moment, and yourself
decide."
He held his snuff-box, "Now then,
if you please ! "
The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crash-
ing sneeze,
Off his head tumbled, bowled along
the floor,
Bounced down the steps ; the pris-
oner said no more !
Woman ! thy falchion is a glittering eye ;
If death lurk in it, how sweet to die !
Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the
head ;
We die with love, and never dream
we 're dead ! ,
168 POEMS FKOM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
LATTER-DAY WARNINGS.
WHEN legislators keep the law,
When banks dispense with bolts and
locks,
When berries whortle, rasp, and
straw
Grow bigger downwards through the
box,
When he that selleth house or land
Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,
When haberdashers choose the stand
Whose window hath the broadest
light,
When preachers tell us all they think,
And party leaders all they mean,
When what we pay for, that we drink,
From real grape and coffee-bean,
When lawyers take what they would
give,
And doctors give what they would
take,
When city fathers eat to live,
Save when they fast for conscience'
sake,
When one that hath a horse on sale
Shall bring his merit to the proof,
Without a lie for every nail
That holds the iron on the hoof,
When in the usual place for rips
Our gloves are stitched with special
care,
And guarded well the whalebone tips
Where first umbrellas need repair,
When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot
The power of suction to resist,
And claret-bottles harbor not
Such dimples as would hold your
fist,
When publishers no longer steal,
And pay for what they stole before,
When the first locomotive's wheel
Rolls through the Hoosac tunnel's
bore ;
Till then let Gumming blaze away,
And Miller's saints blow up the globe ;
But when you see that blessed day,
Then order your ascension robe !
ALBUM VERSES.
WHEN Eve had led her lord away,
And Cain had killed his brother,
The stars and flowers, the poets say,
Agreed with one another
To cheat the cunning tempter's art,
And teach the race its duty,
By keeping on its wicked heart
Their eyes of light and beauty.
A million sleepless lids, they say,
Will be at least a warning ;
And so the flowers would watch by day,
The stars from eve to morning.
On hill and prairie, field and lawn,
Their dewy eyes upturning,
The flowers still watch from reddening
dawn
Till western skies are burning.
Alas ! each hour of daylight tells
A tale of shame so crushing,
That some turn white as sea-bleached
shells,
And some are always blushing.
But when the patient stars look down
On all their light discovers,
The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown,
The lips of lying lovers,
A GOOD TIME GOING!
169
They try to shut their saddening eyes,
And in the vain endeavor
"We see them twinkling in the skies,
And so they wink forever.
A GOOD TIME GOING I
BRAVE singer of the coming time,
Sweet minstrel of the joyous present,
Crowned with the noblest wreath of
rhyme,
The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant,
Good by ! Good by ! Our hearts and
hands,
Our lips in honest Saxon phrases,
Cry, God be with him, till he stands
His feet among the English daisies !
'T is here we part ; for other eyes
The busy deck, the fluttering streamer,
The dripping arms that plunge and rise,
The waves in foam, the ship in tremor,
The kerchiefs waving from the pier,
The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him,
The deep blue desert, lone and drear,
With heaven above and home before
him !
His home ! the Western giant smiles,
And twirls the spotty globe to find
it;
This little speck the British Isles ?
'T is but a freckle, never mind it !
He laughs, and all his prairies roll,
Each gurgling cataract roars and
chuckles,
And ridges stretched from pole to pole
Heave till they crack their iron
knuckles !
But Memory blushes at the sneer,
And Honor turns with frown defiant,
And Freedom, leaning on her spear,
Laughs louder than the laughing
giant :
"An islet is a world," she said,
"When glory with its dust has
blended,
And Britain keeps her noble dead
Till earth and seas and skies are
rended ! "
Beneath each swinging forest-bough
Some arm as stout in death reposes,
From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed
brow
Her valor's life-blood runs in roses ;
Nay, let our brothers of the West
Write smiling in their florid pages,
One half her soil has walked the rest
In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages !
Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,
From sea-weed fringe to mountain
heather,
The British oak with rooted grasp
Her slender handful holds together ;
With cliffs of white and bowers of green,
And Ocean narrowing to caress her,
And hills and threaded streams be-
tween,
Our little mother isle, God bless her !
In earth's broad temple where we stand,
Fanned by the eastern gales that
brought us,
We hold the missal in our hand,
Bright with the lines our Mother
taught us.
Where'er its blazoned page betrays
The glistening links of gilded fetters,
Behold, the half-turned leaf displays
Her rubric stained in crimson letters !
Enough ! To speed a parting friend
T is vain alike to speak and listen ;
Yet stay, these feeble accents blend
With rays of light from eyes that
glisten.
Good by ! once more, and kindly tell
170 POEMS FKOM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
In words of peace the young world's
story,
And say, besides, we love too well
Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory !
THE LAST BLOSSOM.
THOUGH young no more, we still would
dream
Of beauty's dear deluding wiles ;
The leagues of life to gray beards seem
Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles.
Who knows a woman's wild caprice ?
It played with Goethe's silvered hair,
And many a Holy Father's " niece''
Has softly smoothed the papal chair.
"When sixty bids us sigh in vain
To melt the heart of sweet sixteen,
We think upon those ladies twain
Who loved so well the tough old Dean.
We see the Patriarch's wintry face,
The maid of Egypt's dusky glow,
And dream that Youth and Age embrace,
As April violets fill with snow.
Tranced in her lord's Olympian smile
His lotus-loving Memphian lies,
The musky daughter of the Nile,
With plaited hair and almond eyes.
Might we but share one wild caress
Ere life's autumnal blossoms fall,
And Earth's brown, clinging lips impress
The long cold kiss that waits us all !
My bosom heaves, remembering yet
The morning of that blissful day,
When Rose, the flower of spring, I met,
And gave my raptured soul away.
Flung from her eyes of purest blue,
A lasso, with its leaping chain,
Light as a loop of larkspurs, flew
O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain.
Thou com'st to cheer my waning age,
Sweet vision, waited for so long !
Dove that would seek the poet's cage
Lured by the magic breath of song !
She blushes ! Ah, reluctant maid,
Love's drapeau rouge the truth has
told!
O'er girlhood's yielding barricade
Floats the great Leveller's crimson
fold!
Come to my arms ! love heeds not
years ;
No frost the bud of passion knows.
Ha ! what is this my frenzy hears ?
A voice behind me uttered, Rose !
Sweet was her smile, but not for me ;
Alas ! when woman looks too kind,
Just turn your foolish head and see,
Some youth is walking close behind !
CONTENTMENT.
" Man wants but little here below."
LITTLE I ask ; my wants are few ;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own ;
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.
Plain food is quite enough for me ;
Three courses are as good as ten ;
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen !
I always thought cold victual nice ;
My choice would be vanilla-ice.
I care not much for gold or land ;
Give me a mortgage here and there,
ESTIVATION.
171
Some good bank-stock, some note of
hand,
Or trifling railroad share,
I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.
Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names ;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,
But only near St. James ;
I 'm very sure I should not care '
To fill our Gubernator's chair.
Jewels are bawbles ; 't is a sin
To care for such unfruitful things ;
One good-sized diamond in a pin,
Some, not so large, in rings,
A rub} 7 ", and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me ; I laugh at show.
My dame should dress in cheap attire ;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear ;)
I own perhaps I might desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.
I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare ;
An easy gait two, forty-five
Suits me ; I do not care ;
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.
Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four,
I love so much their style and tone,
One Turner, and no more,
(A landscape, foreground golden
dirt,
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)
Of books but few, some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear ;
The rest upon an upper floor ;
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.
Busts, cameos, gems, such things as
these,
Which others often show for pride,
/ value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride ;
One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.
Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ;
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl ?
Give grasping pomp its double share,
I ask but one recumbent chair.
Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch ;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content !
/ESTIVATION.
AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE
LATIN TUTOR.
IN candent ire the solar splendor flames ;
The foles, languescent, pend from arid
rames ;
His humid front the cive, anheling,
wipes,
And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.
How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes,
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,
Carp the suave berries from the crescent
vine,
And bibe the flow from longicaudate
kine!
To me, alas ! no verdurous visions come,
Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-
scum,
172 POEMS FKOM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
No concave vast repeats the tender hue
That laves my milk -jug with celestial
blue!
Me wretched ! Let me curr to quercine
shades !
Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous
maids !
O, might I vole to some umbrageous
clump,
Depart, be off, excede, evade,
erump !
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE ;
OB, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY."
A LOGICAL STORY.
HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-
hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it - ah, but
stay,
I '11 tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that, I say ?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-boss
shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you
what,
There is always somewhere a weakest
spot, -
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurk-
ing still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a chaise breaks d&wn, but does n't
wear out.
But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell
yeou,")
He would build one shay to beat the
taown
V the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun* ;
It should be so built that it couldri break
daown :
" Fur," said the Deacon, " 't 's mighty
plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the
strain ;
V the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village
folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor
broke,
That was for spokes and floor and
sills ;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills ;
The crossbars were ash, from the straight-
est trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like
cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these ;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's
ellum,"
Last of its timber, they could n't sell
'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their
lips,
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.
172
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-
tips ;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue ;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and
wide ;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he " put her
through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow
she '11 dew ! "
Do ! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less !
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren where
were they ?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss
shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day !
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED ; it came and
found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and
sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten ;
"Hahnsum kerridge " they called it
then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came ;
Running as usual ; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its
youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large ;
Take it. You 're welcome. No extra
charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER, the Earthquake-
day
There are traces of age in the one-hoss
shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be, for the Deacon's
art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to
start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the
thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the
sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor
more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the
fore,
And spring and axle and hub entwc.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be ivorn out /
First of November, 'Fifty-five !
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way !
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. Off
went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's
text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped per-
plexed
At what the Moses was coming
next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house
clock,
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock !
174 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around ?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That 's all I say.
PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY.
OK, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR.
A MATHEMATICAL STORY.
FACTS respecting an old arm-chair.
At Cambridge. Is kept in the College
there.
Seems but little the worse for wear.
That 's remarkable when I say
It was old in President Holyoke's day.
(One of his boys, perhaps you know,
Died, at one hundred, years ago.)
He took lodgings for rain or shine
Under green bed-clothes in '69.
Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.
Born there ? Don't say so ! I was, too.
(Born in a house with a gambrel-roof,
Standing still, if you must have proof.
" Gambrel ? Gambrel ? " Let me beg
You '11 look at a horse's hinder leg,
First great angle above the hoof,
That 's the gambrel ; hence gambrel-
roof.)
Nicest place that ever was seen,
Colleges red and Common green,
Sidewalks brownish with trees between.
Sweetest spot beneath the skies
When the canker-worms don't rise,
When the dust, that sometimes flies
Into your mouth and ears and eyes,
In a quiet slumber lies,
Not in the shape of unbaked pies
Such as barefoot children prize.
A kind of harbor it seems to be,
Facing the flow of a boundless sea.
Rows of gray old Tutors stand
Ranged like rocks above the sand ;'
Rolling beneath them, soft and green,
Breaks the tide of bright sixteen,
One wave, two waves, three waves,
four,
Sliding up the sparkling floor :
Then it ebbs to flow no more,
Wandering off" from shore to shore
With its freight of golden ore !
Pleasant place for boys to play ;
Better keep your girls away ;
Hearts get rolled as pebbles do
Which countless fingering waves pursue,
And every classic beach is strown
With heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red
stone.
But this is neither here nor there ;
I 'm talking about an old arm-chair.
You Ve heard, no doubt, of PARSON
TURELL?
Over at Medford he used to dwell ;
Married one of the Mathers' folk ;
ot with his wife a chair of oak,
Funny old chair with seat like wedge,
Sharp behind and broad front edge,
One of the oddest of human things,
Turned all over with knobs and rings,
But heavy, and wide, and deep, and
grand,
Fit for the worthies of the land,
Chief Justice Sewall a cause to try in,
Or Cotton Mather to sit and lie in.
Parson Turell bequeathed the same
To a certain student, SMITH by name ;
These were the terms, as we are told :
Saide Smith saide Chaire to have and
holde ;
When he doth graduate, then to passe
PARSON TURELLS LEGACY.
175
To y* oldest Youth in y e Senior Classe.
On Payment of" naming a certain
sum)
" By him to whom y Chaire shall come;
He to y oldest Senior next,
And soe forever," (thus runs the
text,)
" But one Crown lesse then he gave to
claime,
That being his Debte for use of same."
Smith transferred it to one of the
BROWNS,
And took his money, five silver
crowns.
Brown delivered it up to MOORE,
Who paid, it is plain, not five, but four.
Moore made over the chair to LEE,
Who gave him crowns of silver three.
Lee conveyed it unto DREW,
And now the payment, of course, was two.
Drew gave up the chair to DUNN,
All he got, as you see, was one.
Dunn released the chair to HALL,
And got by the bargain no crown at all.
And now it passed to a second BROWN,
Who took it and likewise claimed a
crown.
When Brown conveyed it unto WARE,
Having had one crown, to make it fair,
He paid him two crowns to take the
chair ;
And Ware, being honest, (as all Wares
be,)
He paid one POTTER, who took it, three.
Four got EOBINSON ; five got Oix ;
JOHNSON primus demanded six ;
And so the sum kept gathering still
Till after the battle of Bunker's Hill.
When paper money became so
cheap,
Folks would n't count it, but said "a
heap,"
A certain RICHARDS, the books de-
clare,
(A. M. in '90 ? I Ve looked with care
Through the Triennial, name not
there,)
This person, Richards, was offered then
Eightscore pounds, but would have
ten ;
Nine, I think, was the sum he took,
Not quite certain, but see the book.
By and by the wars were still,
But nothing had altered the Parson's
will.
The old arm-chair was solid yet,
But saddled with such a monstrous
debt!
Things grew quite too bad to bear,
Paying such sums to get rid of the
chair !
But dead men's fingers hold awful tight,
And there was the will in black and
white,
Plain enough for a child to spell.
What should be done no man could tell,
For the chair was a kind of nightmare
curse,
And every season but made it worse.
As a last resort, to clear the doubt,
They got old GOVERNOR HANCOCK out.
The Governor came with his Light-
horse Troop
And his mounted truckmen, all cock-a-
hoop ;
Halberds glittered and colors flew,
French horns whinnied and trumpets
blew,
The yellow fifes whistled between their
teeth
And the bumble-bee bass-drums boomed
beneath ;
So he rode with all his band,
Till the President met him, cap in hand.
The Governor "hefted" the crowns,
and said,
"A will is a will, and the Parson's
dead."
176 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
The Governor hefted the crowns. Said
he,-
" There is your p'int. And here 's my
fee.
These are the terms you must fulfil,
On such conditions I BREAK THE
WILL ! "
The Governor mentioned what these
should be.
(Just wait a minute and then you '11 see.)
The President prayed. Then all was
still,
And the Governor rose and BROKE THE
WILL !
"About those conditions?" Well,
now you go
And do as I tell you, and then you '11
know.
Once a year, on Commencement day,
If you '11 only take the pains to stay,
You '11 see the President in the CHAIR,
Likewise the Governor sitting there.
The President rises ; both old and young
May hear his speech in a foreign tongue,
The meaning whereof, as lawyers swear,
Is this : Can I keep this old arm-chair ?
And then his Excellency bows,
As much as to say that he allows.
The Vice-Gub. next is called by name ;
He bows like t' other, which means the
same.
And all the officers round 'em bow,
As much as to say that they allow.
And a lot of parchments about the chair
Are handed to witnesses then and there,
And then the lawyers hold it clear
That the chair is safe for another year.
God bless you, Gentlemen ! Learn to
give
Money to colleges while you live.
Don't be silly and think you '11 try
To bother the colleges, when you die,
With codicil this, and codicil that,
That Knowledge may starve while Law
grows fat ;
For there never was pitcher that
would n't spill,
And there 's always a flaw in a donkey's
will!
ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING.
WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER.
COME ! fill a fresh bumper, for why should we go
logwood
While the nootar still reddens our cups as they flow ?
decoction
Pour out the rich juicca still bright with the sun,
dye stuff
Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubico shall run.
half-ripened apples
The purplo globod oluotoro their life-dews have bled ;
taste
How sweet is the breath of the fra-
rank poisons wines ! ! !
For summer's last rooe9 lie hid in the wines
stable-boys smoking long-nines
That were garnered by maidono who laughed thro' tho i
scowl howl scoff sneer
Then a aiil(, and a gtass, and a toast, and a ohoor,
For all t
strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer
'
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,
Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all 1
LOT- livo tho -ay rx-vtmt that lau-h-j t?r in all *
AJ '-"* i ri ii ' U VL<J rt-I "- *"- v-~ ->...*. ._.. .. ar~j **i.
POEMS
FROM THE
PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
1858 - 1859.
UNDER THE VIOLETS.
HER hands are cold ; her face is white ;
No more her pulses come and go ;
Her eyes are shut to life and light ;
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.
But not beneath a graven stone,
To plead for tears with alien eyes ;
A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.
And gray old trees of hugest limb
Shall wheel their circling shadows
round
To make the scorching sunlight dim
That drinks the greenness from the
ground,
And drop their dead leaves on her
mound.
When o'er their boughs the squirrels
run,
And through their leaves the robins
call,
And, ripening in the autumn sun,
The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.
For her the morning choir shall sing
Its matins from the branches high,
And every minstrel-voice of Spring,
That trills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.
When, turning round their dial-track,
Eastward the lengthening shadows
pass,
Her little mourners, clad in black,
The crickets, sliding through the
grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass.
At last the rootlets of the trees
Shall find the prison where she lies,
And bear the buried dust they seize
In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
So may the soul that warmed it rise !
If any, born of kindlier blood,
Should ask, What maiden lies below ?
Say only this : A tender bud,
That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.
HYMN OF TRUST.
O LOVE Divine, that stooped to share
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,
178 POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
On Thee we cast each earth-born care,
"We smile at pain while Thou art near !
Though long the weary way we tread,
And sorrow crown each lingering year,
No path we shun, no darkness dread,
Our hearts still whispering, Thou art
near !
When drooping pleasure turns to grief,
And trembling faith is changed to fear,
The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,
Shall softly tell us, Thou art near !
On Thee we fling our burdening woe,
Love Divine, forever dear,
Content to suffer while we know,
Living and dying, Thou art near !
A SUN-DAY HYMN.
LORD of all being ! throned afar,
Thy glory flames from sun and star ;
Centre and soul of every sphere,
Yet to each loving heart how near !
Sun of our life, thy quickening ray
Sheds on our path the glow of day ;
Star of our hope, thy softened light
Cheers the long watches of the night.
Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn ;
Our noontide is thy gracious dawn ;
Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign ;
All, save the clouds of sin, are thine !
Lord of all life, below, above,
Whose light is truth, whose warmth is
love,
Before thy ever-blazing throne
We ask no lustre of our own.
Grant us thy truth to make us free,
And kindling hearts that burn for thee,
Till all thy living altars claim
One holy light, one heavenly flame !
THE CROOKED FOOTPATH.
AH, here it is ! the sliding rail
That marks the old remembered
spot,
The gap that struck our school-boy
trail,
The crooked path across the lot.
It left the road by school and church,
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver-birch
And ended at the farm-house door.
No line or compass traced its plan ;
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
But always kept the door in sight.
The gabled porch, with woodbine
green,
The broken millstone at the sill,
Though many a rood might stretch be-
tween,
The truant child could see them still.
No rocks across the pathway lie,
No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown,
And yet it winds, we know not why,
And turns as if for tree or stone.
Perhaps some lover trod the way
With shaking knees and leaping
heart,
And so it often runs astray
With sinuous sweep or sudden start.
Or one, perchance, with clouded brain
From some unholy banquet reeled,
And since, our devious steps maintain
His track across the trodden field.
Nay, deem not thus, no earthborn will
Could ever trace a faultless line;
Our truest steps are human still,
To walk unswerving were divine !
IRIS, HER BOOK
179
Truants from love, we dream of wrath ;
0, rather let us trust the more !
Through all the wanderings of the path,
We still can see our Father's door !
IRIS, HER BOOK.
I PRAY thee by the soul of her that bore
thee,
By thine own sister's spirit I implore
thee,
Deal gently with the leaves that lie be-
fore thee !
For Iris had no mother to infold her,
Nor ever leaned upon a sister's shoulder,
Telling the twilight thoughts that Na-
ture told her. .
She had not learned the mystery of
awaking
Those chorded keys that soothe a sor-
row's aching,
Giving the dumb heart voice, that else
were breaking.
Yet lived, wrought, suffered. Lo, the
pictured token !
Why should her fleeting day-dreams
fade unspoken,
Like daffodils that die with sheaths un-
broken ?
She knew not love, yet lived in maiden
fancies,
Walked simply clad, a queen of high
romances,
And talked strange tongues with angels
in her trances.
Twin-souled she seemed, a twofold na-
ture wearing,
Sometimes a flashing falcon in her dar-
ing,
Then a poor mateless dove that droops
despairing.
Questioning all things : Why her Lord
had sent her ?
What were these torturing gifts, and
wherefore lent her ?
Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tor-
mentor.
And then all tears and anguish : Queen
of Heaven,
Sweet Saints, and Thou by mortal sor-
rows riven,
Save me ! 0, save me ! Shall I die
forgiven ?
And then Ah, God ! But nay, it
little matters :
Look at the wasted seeds that autumn
scatters,
The myriad germs that Nature shapes
and shatters !
If she had Well ! She longed, and
knew not wherefore.
Had the world nothing she might live
to care for?
No second self to say her evening prayer
for?
She knew the marble shapes that set
men dreaming,
Yet with her shoulders bare and tresses
streaming
Showed not unlovely to her simple
seeming.
Vain ? Let it be so ! Nature was her
teacher.
What if a lonely and unsistered creature
Loved her own harndess gift of pleasing
feature,
Saying, unsaddened, This shall soon
be faded,
And double-hued the shining tresses
braided,
180 POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
And all the sunlight of the morning
shaded ?
This her poor book is full of sad-
dest follies,
Of tearful smiles and laughing melan-
cholies,
With summer roses twined and wintry
hollies.
In the strange crossing of uncertain
chances,
Somewhere, beneath some maiden's tear-
dimmed glances
May fall her little book of dreams and
fancies.
Sweet sister ! Iris, who shall never
name thee,
Trembling for fear her open heart may
shame thee,
Speaks from this vision -haunted page
to claim thee.
Spare her, I pray thee ! If the maid is
sleeping,
Peace with her ! she has had her hour
of weeping.
No more ! She leaves her memory in
thy keeping.
ROBINSON OF LEYDEN.
HE sleeps not here ; in hope and prayer
His wandering flock had gone before,
But he, the shepherd, might not share
Their sorrows on the wintry shore.
Before the Speedwell's anchor swung,
Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was
spread,
"While round his feet the Pilgrims clung,
The pastor spake, and thus he said :
"Men, brethren, sisters, children dear!
God calls you hence from over sea ;
Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer,
Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee.
' l Ye go to bear the saving word
To tribes unnamed and shores untrod :
Heed well the lessons ye have heard
From those old teachers taught of God.
"Yet think not unto them was lent
All light for all the coming days,
And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent
In making straight the ancient ways :
"The living fountain overflows
For every flock, for every lamb,
Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose
With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam."
He spake : with lingering, long embrace,
With tears of love and partings fond,
They floated down the creeping Maas,
Along the isle of Ysselmond.
They passed the frowning towers of Briel,
The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of
sand,
And grated soon with lifting keel
The sullen shores of Fatherland.
No home for these ! too well they knew
The mitred king behind the throne ;
The sails were set, the pennons flew,
And westward ho ! for worlds un-
known.
And these were they who gave us
birth,
The Pilgrims of the sunset wave,
Who won for us this virgin earth,
And freedom with the soil they gave.
The pastor slumbers by the Rhine,
In alien earth the exiles lie,
Their nameless graves our holiest shrine,
His words our noblest battle- cry !
ST. ANTHONY THE REFORMER. OPENING OF THE PIANO. 181
Still cry them, and the world shall hear,
Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea !
Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer,
Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee !
ST. ANTHONY THE REFORMER.
HIS TEMPTATION.
No fear lest praise should make us proud !
We know how cheaply that is won ;
The idle homage of the crowd
Is proof of tasks as idly done.
A surface-smile may pay the toil
That follows still the conquering
Right,
With soft, white hands to dress the spoil
That sun-browned valor clutched in
fight.
Sing the sweet song of other days,
Serenely placid, safely true,
And o'er the present's parching ways
The verse distils like evening dew.
But speak in words of living power,
They fall like drops of scalding rain
That plashed before the burning shower
Swept o'er the cities of the plain !
Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale,
Then Passion's half-coiled adders
spring,
And, smitten through their leprous mail,
Strike right and left in hope to sting.
If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath,
Thy feet on earth, thy heart above,
Canst walk in peace thy kingly path,
Unchanged in trust, unchilled in
love,
Too kind for bitter words to grieve,
Too firm for clamor to dismay,
When Faith forbids thee to believe,
And Meekness calls to disobey,
Ah, then beware of mortal pride !
The smiling pride that calmly scorns
Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed
In laboring on thy crown of thorns !
THE OPENING OF THE PIANO.
IN the little southern parlor of the house
you may have seen
With the gambrel-roof, and the gable
looking westward to the green,
At the side toward the sunset, with the
window on its right,
Stood the London-made piano I am
dreaming of to-night !
Ah me ! how I remember the evening
when it came!
What a cry of eager voices, what a group
of cheeks in flame,
When the wondrous box was opened
that had come from over seas,
With its smell of mastic- varnish and
its flash of ivory keys !
Then the children all grew fretful in the
restlessness of joy ;
For the boy would push his sister, and
the sister crowd the boy,
Till the father asked for quiet in his
grave paternal way,
But the mother hushed the tumult with
the words, "Now, Mary, play."
For the dear soul knew that music was
a very sovereign balm ;
She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and
seen its brow grow calm,
In the days of slender harpsichords with
tapping tinkling quills,
Or carolling to her spinet with its thin
metallic thrills.
So Mary, the household minstrel, who
always loved to please,
182 POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Sat down to the new "dementi," and
struck the glittering keys.
Hushed were the children's voices, and
every eye grew dim,
As, floating from lip and finger, arose
the " Vesper Hymn."
Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly
and rosy-red,
(Wedded since, and a widow, some-
thing like ten years dead,)
Hearing a gush of music such as none
before,
Steals from her mother's chamber and
peeps at the open door.
Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded
whisper dies,
" Open it ! open it, lady ! " the little
maiden cries,
(For she thought 't was a singing crea-
ture caged in a box she heard,)
" Open it ! open it, lady ! and let. me
see the bird/"
MIDSUMMER.
HERE ! sweep these foolish leaves away,
I will not crush my brains to-day !
Look ! are the southern curtains drawn ?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone !
Not that, the palm-tree's rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef !
Its breath is heated ; I would swing
The broad gray plumes, the eagle's
wing.
I hate these roses' feverish blood !
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake.
Rain me sweet odors on the air,
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.
Who knows it not, this dead recoil
Of weary fibres stretched with toil,
The pulse that flutters faint and low
When Summer's seething breezes blow !
Nature ! bare thy loving breast,
And give thy child one hour of rest,
One little hour to lie unseen
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green !
So, curtained by a singing pine,
Its murmuring voice shall blend with
mine,
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay
In sweeter music dies away.
DE SAUTY.
AN ELECTRO-CHEMICAL ECLOGUE.
Professor. Blue-Nose.
PROFESSOR.
TELL me, Provincial ! speak, Cenileo-
Nasal !
Lives there one De Sauty extant now
among you,
Whispering Boanerges, son of silent
, thunder,
Holding talk with nations ?
Is there a De Sauty ambulant on Tellus,
Bifid-cleft like mortals, dormient in
nightcap,
Having sight, smell, hearing, food-re-
ceiving feature
Three times daily patent ?
Breathes there such a being, Ceruleo-
Nasal ?
Or is he a mythus, ancient word for
"humbug,"-
DE SAUTY.
183
Such as Livy told about the wolf that
wet-nursed
Romulus and Remus ?
Was he born of woman, this alleged De
Sauty?
Or a living product of galvanic action,
Like the acarus bred in Crosse's flint-so-
lution ?
Speak, thou Cyano-Rhinal !
BLUE-NOSE.
Many things thou askest, jackknife-
bearing stranger,
Much-conjecturing mortal, pork-and-
treacle-waster !
Pretermit thy whittling, wheel thine
ear-flap toward me,
Thou shalt hear them answered.
When the charge galvanic tingled
through the cable,
At the polar focus of the wire electric
Suddenly appeared a white-faced man
among us :
Called himself "DE SAUTY."
As the small opossum held in pouch
maternal
Grasps the nutrient organ whence the
term mammalia,
So the unknown stranger held the wire
electric,
Sucking in the current.
When the current strengthened, bloomed
the pale-faced stranger,
Took no drink nor victual, yet grew fat
and rosy,
And from time to time, in sharp articu-
lation,
Said, "All right! DE SAUTY."
From the lonely station passed the utter-
ance, spreading
Through the pines and hemlocks to the
groves of steeples,
Till the land was filled with loud rever-
berations
Of "All right! DE SAUTY."
When the current slackened, drooped
the mystic stranger,
Faded, faded, faded, as the stream grew
weaker,
Wasted to a shadow, with a hartshorn
odor
Of disintegration.
Drops of deliquescence glistened on his
forehead,
Whitened round his feet the dust of
efflorescence,
Till one Monday morning, when the flow
suspended,
There was no De Sauty.
Nothing but a cloud of elements organic,
C. 0. H. N. Ferrum, Chlor. Flu. Sil.
Potassa,
Calc. Sod. Phosph. Mag. Sulphur,
Mang. (?) Alumin. (?) Cuprum, (?)
Such as man is made of.
Born of stream galvanic, with it he had
perished !
There is no De Sauty now there is no
current !
Give us a new cable, then again we '11
hear him
Cry, "All right! DE SAUTY."
P E M S
FROM THE
POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
1871-1873.
HOMESICK IN HEAVEN.
THE DIVINE VOICE.
Go seek thine earth-born sisters, thus
the Voice
That all obey, the sad and silent
three ;
These only, while the hosts of Heaven
rejoice,
Smile never : ask them what their
sorrows be :
And when the secret of their griefs they
tell,
Look on them with thy mild, half-
human eyes ;
Say what thou wast on earth ; thou
knowest well ;
So shall they cease from unavailing
sighs.
THE ANGEL.
Why thus, apart, the swift-winged
herald spake,
Sit ye with silent lips and unstrung
lyres
While the trisagion's blending chords
awake
In shouts of joy from all the heavenly
choirs ?
THE FIRST SPIRIT.
Chide not thy sisters, thus the an-
swer came ;
Children of earth, our half-weaned
nature clings
To earth's fond memories, and her whis-
pered name
Untunes our quivering lips, our sad-
dened strings ;
For there we loved, and where we love
is home,
Home that our feet may leave, but not
our hearts,
Though o'er us shine the jasper-lighted
dome :
The chain may lengthen, but it never
parts !
Sometimes a sunlit sphere comes rolling
by,
And then we softly whisper, can it
be? ,
And leaning toward the silvery orb, we
try
To hear the music of its murmuring
sea ;
To catch, perchance, some flashing
glimpse of green,
Or breathe some wild- wood fragrance,
wafted through
The opening gates of pearl, that fold
between
The blinding splendors and the change-
less blue.
186 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
THE ANGEL.
Nay, sister, nay ! a single healing leaf
Plucked from the bough of yon twelve-
fruited tree,
Would soothe such anguish, deeper
stabbing grief
Has pierced thy throbbing heart
THE FIRST SPIRIT.
Ah, woe is me !
I from my clinging babe was rudely
torn ;
His tender lips a loveless bosom
Can I forget him in my life new born ?
that my darling lay upon my breast !
THE ANGEL.
And thou ?
THE SECOND SPIRIT.
I was a fair and youthful bride,
The kiss of love still burns upon my
cheek,
He whom I worshipped, ever at my
side,
Him through the spirit realm in vain
I seek.
Sweet faces turn their beaming eyes on
mine ;
Ah ! not in these the wished-for look
I read ;
Still for that one dear human smile I
pine;
Thou and none other J is the lover's
creed.
THE ANGEL.
And whence iky sadness in a world
of bliss
Where never parting comes, nor
mourner's tear ?
Art thou, too, dreaming of a mortal's kiss
Amid the seraphs of the heavenly
sphere ?
THE THIRD SPIRIT.
Nay, tax not me with passion's wast-
ing fire ;
When the swift message set my spirit
free,
Blind, helpless, lone, I left my gray-
haired sire ;
My friends were many, he had none
save me.
I left him, orphaned, in the starless
night ;
Alas, for him no cheerful morning's
dawn !
I wear the ransomed spirit's robe of
white,
Yet still I hear him moaning, She is
gone!
THE ANGEL.
Ye know me not, sweet sisters ? All
in vain
Ye seek your lost ones in the shapes
they wore;
The flower once opened may not bud
again,
The fruit once fallen finds the stem
Child, lover, sire, yea, all things
loved below,
Fair pictures damasked on a vapor's
fold,
Fade like the roseate flush, the golden
glow,
When the bright curtain of the day
is rolled.
/ was the babe that slumbered on thy
breast.
And, sister, mine the lips that called
thee bride.
Mine were the silvered locks thy hand
caressed,
That faithful hand, my faltering foot-
step's guide !
FANTASIA. AUNT TABITHA.
187
Each changing form, frail vesture of
decay,
The soul unclad forgets it once hath
worn,
Stained with the travel of the weary day,
And shamed with rents from every
wayside thorn.
To lie, an infant, in %fond embrace,
To come with love's warm kisses back
to thee,
To show thine eyes thy gray-haired fa-
ther's face,
Not Heaven itself could grant ; this
may not be !
Then spread your folded wings, and
leave to earth
The dust once breathing ye have
mourned so long,
Till Love, new risen, owns his heavenly
birth,
And sorrow's discords sweeten into
song !
FANTASIA.
THE YOUNG GIRI/S POEM.
Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,
Blushing into life new-born !
Lend me violets for my hair,
And thy russet robe to wear,
And thy ring of rosiest hue
Set in drops of diamond dew !
Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray,
From my Love so far away !
Let thy splendor streaming down
Turn its pallid lilies brown,
Till its darkening shades reveal
Where his passion pressed its seal !
Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light,
Kiss my lips a soft good-night !
Westward sinks thy golden car ;
Leave me but the evening star,
And my solace that shall be,
Borrowing all its light from thee !
AUNT TABITHA.
THE YOUNG GIRI/S POEM.
WHATEVER I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the
way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt ! If I only would take her
advice !
But I like my own way, and I find it so
nice !
And besides, I forget half the things I
am told ;
But they all will come back to me
when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no
doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to
look out ;
She would never endure an impertinent
stare,
It is horrid, she says, and I must n't sit
there.
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures,
I own,
But it is n't quite safe to be walking
alone ;
So I take a lad's arm, just for safety,
you know,
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n't
do so.
How wicked we are, and how good they
were then !
They kept at arm's length those detesta-
ble men ;
188 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
What an era of virtue she lived in !
But stay
Were the 'men all such rogues in Aunt
Tabitha's day ?
If the men were so wicked, I '11 ask my
papa
How he dared to propose to my darling
mamma ;
Was he like the rest of them ? Good-
ness ! Who knows ?
And what shall / say, if a wretch should
propose ?
I am thinking if Aunt knew so little of
sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt
must have been !
And her grand-aunt it scares me
how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully
bad!
A martyr will save us, and nothing else
can ;
Let me perish to rescue some wretched
young man !
Though when to the altar a victim T go,
Aunt Tabitha '11 tell me she never did so !
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
FROM THE YOUNG ASTRONOMER'S POEM.
I.
AMBITION.
ANOTHER clouded night ; the stars are
hid,
The orb that waits my search is hid with
them.
Patience ! Why grudge an hour, a
month, a year,
To plant my ladder and to gain the
round
That leads my footsteps to the heaven
of fame,
Where waits the wreath my sleepless
midnights won ?
Not the stained laurel such as heroes
wear
That withers when some stronger con-
queror's heel
Treads down their shrivelling trophies
in the dust ;
But the fair garland whose undying
green
Not time can change, nor wrath of gods
or men !
With quickened heart-beats I shall
hear the tongues
That speak my praise; but better far
the sense
That in the unshaped ages, buried deep
In the dark mines of unaccomplished
time
Yet to be stamped with morning's royal
die
And coined in golden days, in those
dim years
I shall be reckoned with the undying
dead,
My name emblazoned on the fiery arch,
Unfading till the stars themselves shall
fade.
Then, as they call the roll of shining
worlds,
Sages of race unborn in accents new
Shall count me with the Olympian ones
of old,
Whose glories kindle through the mid-
night sky :
Here glows the God of Battles ; this
recalls
The Lord of Ocean, and yon far-off sphere
The Sire of Him who gave his ancient
name
To the dim planet with the wondrous
rings ;
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
189
Here flames the Queen of Beauty's silver
lamp,
And there the moon -girt orb of mighty
Jove ;
But this, unseen through all earth's seons
past,
A youth who watched beneath the west-
ern star
Sought in the darkness, found, and
shewed to men ;
Linked with his name thenceforth and
evermore !
So shall that name be syllabled anew
In all the tongues of all the tribes of
men :
I that have been through immemorial
years
Dust in the dust of my forgotten time
Shall live in accents shaped of blood-
warm breath,
Yea, rise in mortal semblance, newly
born
In shining stone, in undecaying bronze,
And stand on high, and look serenely
down
On the new race that calls the earth its
own.
Is this a cloud, that, blown athwart
my soul,
Wears a false seeming of the pearly stain
Where worlds beyond the world their
mingling rays
Blend in soft white, a cloud that, born
of earth,
Would cheat the soul that looks for light
from heaven ?
Must every coral-insect leave his sign
On each poor grain he lent to build the
reef,
As Babel's builders stamped their sun-
burnt clay,
Or deem his patient service all in vain ?
What if another sit beneath the shade
Of the broad elm I planted by the way,
What if another heed the beacon light
I set upon the rock that wrecked my
keel,
Have I not done my task and served my
kind?
Nay, rather act thy part, unnamed, un-
known,
And let Fame blow her trumpet through
the world
With noisy wind to swell a fool's re-
nown,
Joined with some truth he stumbled
blindly o'er,
Or coupled with some single shining
deed
That in the great account of all his
days
Will stand alone upon the bankrupt
sheet
His pitying angel shows the clerk of
Heaven.
The noblest service comes from nameless
hands,
And the best servant does his work un-
seen.
Who found the seeds of fire and made
them shoot,
Fed by his breath, in buds and flowers
of flame ?
Who forged in roaring flames the pon-
derous stone,
And shaped the moulded metal to his
need?
Who gave the dragging car its rolling
wheel,
And tamed the steed that whirls its
circling round ?
All these have left their work and not
their names,
Why should I murmur at a fate like
theirs ?
This is the heavenly light ; the pearly
stain
Was but a wind-cloud drifting o'er the
stars !
190 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
II.
REGRETS.
BRIEF glimpses of the bright celestial
spheres,
False lights, false shadows, vague, un
certain gleams,
Pale vaporous mists, wan streaks of lurid
flame,
The climbing of the up ward- sailing
cloud,
The sinking of the downward-falling
star,
All these are pictures of the changing
moods
Borne through the midnight stillness of
my soul.
Here am I, bound upon this pillared
rock,
Prey to the vulture of a vast desire
That feeds upon my life. I burst my
bands
And steal a moment's freedom from the
beak,
The clinging talons and the shadowing
plumes ;
Then comes the false enchantress, with
her song ;
"Thou wouldst not lay thy forehead in
the dust
Like the base herd that feeds and breeds
and dies !
Lo, the fair garlands that I weave for
thee,
Unchanging as the belt Orion wears,
Bright as the jewels of the seven-starred
Crown,
The spangled stream of Berenice's hair ! "
And so she twines the fetters with the
flowers
Around my yielding limbs, and the fierce
bird
Stoops to his quarry, then to feed his
rage
Of ravening hunger I must drain my
blood
And let the dew-drenched, poison-breed-
ing night
Steal all the freshness from my fading
cheek,
And leave its shadows round my cav-
erned eyes.
All for a line in some unheeded scroll ;
All for a stone that tells to gaping
clowns,
"Here lies a restless wretch beneath a
clod
Where squats the jealous nightmare men
call Fame ! "
I marvel not at him who scorns his
kind
And thinks not sadly of the time fore-
told
When the old hulk we tread shall be a
wreck,
A slag, a cinder drifting through the
sky
Without its crew of fools ! We live too
long
And even so are not content to die,
But load the mould that covers up our
bones
With stones that stand like beggars by
the road
And show death's grievous wound and
ask for tears ;
Write our great books to teach men who
we are,
Sing our fine songs that tell in artful
phrase
The secrets of our lives, and plead and
pray
For alms of memory with the after time,
Those few swift seasons while the earth
shall wear
Its leafy summers, ere its core grows cold
And the rnoist life of all that breathes
shall die ;
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
191
Or as the new-born seer, perchance more
wise,
Would have us deem, before its growing
mass,
Pelted with star-dust, stoned with me-
teor-balls,
Heats like a hammered anvil, till at last
Man and his works and all that stirred
itself
Of its own motion, in the fiery glow
Turns to a naming vapor, and our orb
Shines a new sun for earths that shall be
born.
I am as old as Egypt to myself,
Brother to them that squared the pyra-
mids
By the same stars I watch. I read the
Where every letter is a glittering world,
With them who looked from Shinar's
clay-built towers,
Ere yet the wanderer of the Midland
sea
Had missed the fallen sister of the seven.
I dwell in spaces vague, remote, un-
known,
Save to the silent few, who, leaving
earth,
Quit all communion with their living
time.
I lose myself in that ethereal void,
Till I have tired my wings and long to
fill
My breast with denser air, to stand, to
walk
With eyes not raised above my fellow-
men.
Sick of my unwalled, solitary realm,
I ask to change the myriad lifeless
worlds
I visit as mine own for one poor patch
Of this dull spheroid and a little breath
To shape in word or deed to serve my
kind.
Was ever giant's dungeon dug so deep,
Was ever tyrant's fetter forged so strong,
Was e'er such deadly poison in the
draught
The false wife mingles for the trusting
fool,
As he -whose willing victim is himself,
Digs, forges, mingles, for his captive
soul ?
III.
SYMPATHIES.
THE snows that glittered on the disk of
Mars
Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb
Rolls in the crimson summer of its year ;
But what to me the summer or the snow
Of worlds that throb with life in forms
unknown,
If life indeed be theirs ; I heed not
these.
My heart is simply human ; all my care
For them whose dust is fashioned like
mine own ;
These ache with cold and hunger, live
in pain,
And shake with fear of worlds more full
of woe ;
There may be others worthier of my
love,
But such I know not save through these
I know.
There are two veils of language, hid be-
neath
Whose sheltering folds, we dare to be
ourselves ;
And not that other self which nods and
smiles
And babbles in our name ; the one is
Prayer,
Lending its licensed freedom to the
tongue
192 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
That tells our sorrows and our sins to
Heaven ;
The other, Verse, that throws its spangled
web
Around our naked speech and makes it
bold.
I, whose best prayer is silence ; sitting
dumb
In the great temple where I nightly
serve
Him who is throned in light, have dared
to claim
The poet's franchise, though I may not
hope
To wear his garland ; hear me while I
tell
My story in such form as poets use,
But breathed in fitful whispers, as the
wind
Sighs and then slumbers, wakes and
sighs again.
Thou Vision, floating in the breathless
air
Between me and the fairest of the stars,
I tell my lonely thoughts as unto thee.
Look not for marvels of the scholar's pen
In my rude measure ; I can only show
A slender-margined, unillumined page,
And trust its meaning to the flattering
eye
That reads it in the gracious light of
love.
Ah, wouldst thou clothe thyself in
breathing shape
And nestle at my side, my voice should
lend
Whate'er my verse may lack of tender
rhythm
To make thee listen.
I have stood entranced
When, with her fingers wandering o'er
the keys,
The white enchantress with the golden
hair
Breathed all her soul through some un-
valued rhyme ;
Some flower of song that long had lost
its bloom ;
Lo ! its dead summer kindled as she
sang !
The sweet contralto, like the ringdove's
coo,
Thrilled it with brooding, fond, caress-
ing tones,
And the pale minstrel's passion lived
again,
Tearful and trembling as a dewy rose
The wind has shaken till it fills the air
With light and fragrance. Such the
wondrous charm
A song can borrow when the bosom
throbs
That lends it breath.
So from the poet's lips
His verse sounds doubly sweet, for none
like him
Feels every cadence of its wave*like
flow ;
He lives the passion over, while he reads,
That shook him as he sang his lofty
strain,
And pours his life through each resound-
ing line,
As ocean, when the stormy winds are
hushed,
Still rolls and thunders through his bil-
lowy caves.
IV.
MASTER AND SCHOLAR.
LET me retrace the record of the years
That made me what I am. A man most
But overworn with toil and bent with
age,
Sought me to be his scholar, me, run
wild
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
193
From books and teachers, kindled in
my soul
The love of knowledge ; led me to his
tower,
Showed me the wonders of the midnight
realm
His hollow sceptre ruled, or seemed to
rule,
Taught me the mighty secrets of the
spheres,
Trained me to find the glimmering specks
of light
Beyond the unaided sense, and on my
chart
To string them one by one, in order due,
As on a rosary a saint his beads.
I was his only scholar ; I became
The echo to his thought ; whate'er he
knew
Was mine for asking ; so from year to
year
"We wrought together, till there came a
time
"When I, the learner, was the master
half
Of the twinned being in the dome-
crowned tower.
Minds roll in paths like planets ; they
revolve
This in a larger, that a narrower ring,
But round they come at last to that same
phase,
That selfsame light and shade they
showed before.
I learned his annual and his monthly
tale,
His weekly axiom and his daily phrase,
I felt them coming in the laden air,
And watched them laboring up to vocal
breath,
Even as the first-born at his father's
board
Knows ere he speaks the too familiar
jest
Is on its way, by some mysterious
sign
Forewarned, the click before the striking
bell.
He shrivelled as I spread my growing
leaves,
Till trust and reverence changed to pity-
ing care ;
He lived for me in what he once had
been,
But I for him, a shadow, a defence,
The guardian of his fame, his guide, his
staff,
Leaned on so long he fell if left alone.
I was his eye, his ear, his cunning
hand,
Love was my spur and longing after
fame,
But his the goading thorn of sleepless
age
That sees its shortening span, its length-
ening shades,
That clutches what it may with eager
grasp,
And drops at last with empty, out-
stretched hands.
All this he dreamed not. He would
sit him down
Thinking to work his problems as of
old,
And find the star he thought so plain a
blur,
The columned figures labyrinthine wilds
Without my comment, blind and sense-
less scrawls
That vexed him with their riddles ; he
would strive
And struggle for a while, and then his
eye
Would lose its light, and over all his
mind
The cold gray mist would settle; and
erelong
The darkness fell, and I was left alone.
194 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
V.
ALONE.
ALONE ! no climber of an Alpine cliff,
No Arctic venturer on the waveless sea,
Feels the dread stillness round him as it
chills
The heart of him who leaves the slum-
bering earth
To watch the silent worlds that crowd
the sky.
Alone ! And as the shepherd leaves his
flock
To feed upon the hillside, he meanwhile
Finds converse in the warblings of the
pipe
Himself has fashioned for his vacant
hour,
So have I grown companion to myself,
And to the wandering spirits of the air
That smile and whisper round us in our
dreams.
Thus have I learned to search if I may
know
The whence and why of all beneath the
stars
And all beyond them, and to weigh my
life
As in a balance, poising good and ill
Against each other, asking of the
Power
That flung me forth among the whirling
worlds,
If I am heir to any inborn right,
Or only as an atom of the dust
That every wind may blow where'er it
will.
VI.
QUESTIONING.
I AM not humble ; I was shown my
place,
Clad in such robes as Nature had at
hand;
Took what she gave, not chose ; I know
no shame,
No fear for being simply what I am.
I am not proud, I hold my every breath
At Nature's mercy. I am as a babe
Borne in a giant's arms, he knows not
where ;
Each several heart-beat, counted like the
coin
A miser reckons, is a special gift
As from an unseen hand ; if that with-
hold
Its bounty for a moment, I am left
A clod upon the earth to which I fall.
Something I find in me that well might
claim
The love of beings in a sphere above
This doubtful twilight world of right
and wrong ;
Something that shows me of the self-
same clay
That creeps or swims or flies in humblest
form.
Had I been asked, before I left my bed
Of shapeless dust, what clothing I would
wear,
I would have said, More angel and less
worm ;
But for their sake who are even such as I,
Of the same mingled blood, I would not
choose
To hate that meaner portion of myself
Which makes me brother to the least of
I dare not be a coward with my lips
Who dare to question all things in my
soul ;
Some men may find their wisdom on
their knees,
Some prone and grovelling in the dust
like slaves ;
Let the meek glowworm glisten in the
dew ;
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
195
I ask to lift my taper to the sky
As they who hold their lamps above
their heads,
Trusting the larger currents up aloft,
Rather than crossing eddies round their
breast,
Threatening with every puff the flicker-
ing blaze.
My life shall be a challenge, not a truce !
This is my homage to the mightier
powers,
To ask my boldest question, undismayed
By muttered threats that some hysteric
sense
Of wrong or insult will convulse the
throne
Where wisdom reigns supreme ; and if I
err,
They all must err who have to feel their
way
As bats that fly at noon ; for what are we
But creatures of the night, dragged forth
by day,
Who needs must stumble, and with
stammering steps
Spell out their paths in syllables of pain ?
Thou wilt not hold in scorn the child
who dares
Look up to Thee, the Father, dares to
ask
More than Thy wisdom answers. From
Thy hand
The worlds were cast ; yet every leaflet
claims
From that same hand its little shining
sphere
Of star-lit dew ; thine image, the great
sun,
Girt with his mantle of tempestuous
flame,
Glares in mid-heaven ; but to his noon-
tide blaz
The slender violet lifts its lidless eye,
And from his splendor steals its fairest
hue,
Its sweetest perfume from his scorching
fire.
VII.
WORSHIP.
FROM my lone turret as I look around
O'er the green meadows to the ring of
blue,
From slope, from summit, and from
half-hid vale
The sky is stabbed with dagger-pointed
spires,
Their gilded symbols whirling in the
wind,
Their brazen tongues proclaiming to
the world,
" Here truth is sold, the only genuine
ware ;
See that it has our trade-mark ! You
will buy
Poison instead of food across the way,
The lies of " this or that, each sev-
eral name
The standard's blazon and the battle-
cry
Of some true-gospel faction, and again
The token of the Beast to all beside.
And grouped round each I see a hud-
dling crowd
Alike in all things save the words they
use ;
In love, in longing, hate and fear the
Whom do we trust and serve ? We
speak of one
And bow to many ; Athens still would
find
The shrines of all she worshipped safe
within
Our tall barbarian temples, and the
thrones
196 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
That crowned Olympus mighty as of old.
The god of music rules the Sabbath
choir ;
The lyric muse must leave the sacred
nine
To help us please the dilettante's ear ;
Plutus limps homeward with us, as we
leave
The portals of the temple where we knelt
And listened while the god of eloquence
(Hermes of ancient days, but now dis-
guised
In sable vestments) with that other god
Somnus, the son of Erebus and Nox,
Fights in unequal contest for our souls ;
The dreadful sovereign of the under
world
Still shakes his sceptre at us, and we hear
The baying of the triple-throated hound ;
Eros is young as ever, and as fair
The lovely Goddess born of ocean's foam.
These be thy gods, Israel ! Who
is he,
The one ye name and tell us that ye
serve,
"Whom ye would call me from my lonely
tower
To worship with the many -headed
throng ?
Is it the God that walked in Eden's grove
In the cool hour to seek our guilty sire ?
The God who dealt with Abraham as
the sons
Of that old patriarch deal with other
men?
The jealous God of Moses, one who feels
An image as an insult, and is wroth
With him who made it and his child
unborn ?
The God who plagued his people for
the sin
Of their adulterous king, beloved of
him,
The same who offers to a chosen few
The right to praise him in eternal song
While a vast shrieking world of endless
woe
Blends its dread chorus with their rap-
turous hymn ?
Is this the God ye mean, or is it he
Who heeds the sparrow's fall, whose
loving heart
Is as the pitying father's to his child,
Whose lesson to his children is * ' For-
give,"
Whose plea for all, "They know not
what they do " ?
VIII.
MANHOOD.
I CLAIM the right of knowing whom
I serve,
Else is my service idle ; He that asks
My homage asks it from a reasoning soul.
To crawl is not to worship ; we have
learned
A drill of eyelids, bended neck and knee,
Hanging our prayers on hinges, till we
ape
The flexures of the many-jointed worm.
Asia has taught her Allans and salaams
To the world's children, we have
grown to men !
We who have rolled the sphere beneath
our feet
To find a virgin forest, as we lay
The beams of our rude temple, first of all
Must frame its doorway high enough
for man
To pass unstooping ; knowing as we do
That He who shaped us last of living
forms
Has long enough been served by creep-
ing things,
Reptiles that left their footprints in
the sand
Of old sea-margins that have turned to
stone,
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
197
And men who learned their ritual ; we
demand
To know him first, then trust him and
then love
When we have found him worthy of our
love,
Tried by our own poor hearts and not
before ;
He must be truer than the truest friend,
He must be tenderer than a woman's
love,
A father better than the best of sires ;
Kinder than she who bore us, though
we sin
Oftener than did the brother we are told,
We poor ill-tempered mortals must
forgive,
Though seven- times sinning threescore
times and ten.
This is the new world's gospel : Be
ye men !
Try well the legends of the children's
time ;
Ye are the chosen people, God has led
Your steps across the desert of the deep
As now across the desert of the shore ;
Mountains are cleft before you as the
sea
Before the wandering tribe of Israel's
sons ;
Still onward rolls the thunderous cara-
van,
Its coming printed on the western sky,
A cloud by day, by night a pillared
flame;
Your prophets are a hundred unto one
Of them of old who cried, " Thus saith
the Lord" ;
They told of cities that should fall in
But yours of mightier cities that shall
rise
Where yet the lonely fishers spread their
nets,
Where hides the fox and hoots the mid-
night owl ;
The tree of knowledge in your garden
grows
Not single, but at every humble door ;
Its branches lend you their immortal
food,
That fills you with the sense of what
ye are,
No servants of an altar hewed and carved
From senseless stone by craft of human
hands,
Rabbi, or dervish, brahmin, bishop,
bonze,
But masters of the charm with which
they w r ork
To keep your hands from that forbidden
tree!
Ye that have tasted that divinest fruit,
Look on this world of yours with opened
eyes !
Ye are as gods ! Nay, makers of your
gods,
Each day ye break an image in your
shrine
And plant a fairer image where it stood :
Where is the Moloch of your fathers'
creed,
Whose fires of torment burned for span-
long babes ?
Fit object for a tender mother's love !
Why not? It was a bargain duly made
For these same infants through the
surety's act
Intrusted with their all for earth and
heaven,
By Him who chose their guardian,
knowing well
His fitness for the task, this, even
this,
Was the true doctrine only yesterday
As thoughts are reckoned, and to-day
you hear
In words that sound as if from human
tongues
198 POEMS FHOM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Those monstrous, uncouth horrors of
the past
That blot the blue of heaven and shame
the earth
As would the saurians of the age of
slime,
Awaking from their stony sepulchres
And wallowing hateful in the eye of
day !
IX.
RIGHTS.
WHAT am I but the creature Thou hast
made ?
What have I save the blessings Thou
hast lent ?
What hope I but Thy mercy and Thy
love?
Who but myself shall cloud my soul with
fear?
Whose hand protect me from myself but
Thine ?
I claim the rights of weakness, I, the
babe,
Call on my sire to shield me from the
ills
That still beset my path, not trying me
With snares beyond my wisdom or my
strength,
He knowing I shall use them to my
harm,
And find a tenfold misery in the sense
That in my childlike folly I have sprung
The trap upon myself as vermin use
Drawn by the cunning bait to certain
doom.
Who wrought the wondrous charm that
leads us on
To sweet perdition, but the selfsame
power
That set the fearful engine to destroy
His wretched offspring (as the Rabbis
tell),
And hid its yawning jaws arid treacher-
ous springs
In such a show of innocent sweet flowers
It lured the sinless angels and they fell ?
Ah ! He who prayed the prayer of
all mankind
Summed in those few brief words the
mightiest plea
For erring souls before the courts of
heaven,
Save us from being tempted, lest we
fall!
If we are only as the potter's clay
Made to be fashioned as the artist wills,
And broken into shards if we offend
The eye of Him who made us, it is well ;
Such love as the insensate lump of clay
That spins upon the swift-revolving
wheel
Bears to the hand that shapes its growing
form,
Such love, no more, will be our hearts'
return
To the great Master-workman for his
care,
Or would be, save that this, our breath-
ing clay,
Is intertwined with fine innumerous
threads
That make it conscious in its framer's
hand ;
And this He must remember who has
filled
These vessels with the deadly draught
of life,
Life, that means death to all it claims.
Our love
Must kindle in the ray that streams
from heaven,
A faint reflection of the light divine ;
The sun must warm th*e earth before the
rose
Can show her inmost heart-leaves to the
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
199
He yields some fraction of the Maker's
right
Who gives the quivering nerve its sense
of pain ;
Is there not something in the pleading
eye
Of the poor brute that suffers, which ar-
raigns
The law that bids it suffer ? Has it not
A claim for some remembrance in the
book
That fills its pages with the idle words
Spoken of men ? Or is it only clay,
Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand,
Yet all his own to treat it as he will
And when he will to cast it at his feet,
Shattered, dishonored, lost forevermore ?
My dog loves me, but could he look be-
yond
His earthly master, would his love ex-
tend
To Him who Hush ! I will not doubt
that He
Is better than our fears, and will not
wrong
The least, the meanest of created things !
He would not trust me with the small-
est orb
That circles through the sky ; he would
not give
A meteor to my guidance ; would not
leave
The coloring of a cloudlet to my hand ;
He locks my beating heart beneath its
bars
And keeps the key himself; he meas-
ures out
The draughts of vital breath that warm
my blood,
Winds up the springs of instinct which
uncoil,
Each in its season ; ties me to my home,
My race, my time, my nation, and my
creed
So closely that if I but slip my wrist
Out of the band that cuts it to the bone,
Men say, " He hath a devil" ; he has lent
All that I hold in trust, as unto one
By reason of his weakness and his years
Not fit to hold the smallest shred in fee
Of those most common things he calls
his own
And yet my Rabbi tells me he has
left
The care of that to which a million
worlds
Filled with unconscious life were less
than naught,
Has left that mighty universe, the Soul,
To the weak guidance of our baby hands,
Let the foul fiends have access at their
will,
Taking the shape of angels, to our
hearts,
Our hearts already poisoned through and
through
With the fierce virus of ancestral sin ;
Turned us adrift with our immortal
charge,
To wreck ourselves in gulfs of endless woe.
If what my Rabbi tells me is the truth
Why did the choir of angels sing for joy ?
Heaven must be compassed in a narrow
space,
And offer more than room enough for all
That pass its portals ; but the under-
world,
The godless realm, the place where
demons forge
Their fiery darts and adamantine chains,
Must swarm with ghosts that for a little
while
Had worn the garb of flesh, and being
heirs
Of all the dulness of their stolid sires,
And all the erring instincts of their
tribe,
Nature's own teaching, rudiments of
"sin,"
200
POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Fell headlong in the snare that could
not fail
To trap the wretched creatures shaped
of clay
And cursed with sense enough to lose
their souls !
Brother, thy heart is troubled at my
word ;
Sister, I see the cloud is on thy brow.
He will not blame me, He who sends not
peace,
But sends a sword, and bids us strike
amain
At Error's gilded crest, where in the van
Of earth's great army, mingling with the
best
And bravest of its leaders, shouting loud
The battle-cries that yesterday have
led
The host of Truth to victory, but to-day
Are watchwords of the laggard and the
slave,
He leads his dazzled cohorts. God has
made
This world a strife of atoms and of
spheres ;
With every breath I sigh myself away
And take my tribute from the wandering
wind
To fan the flame of life's consuming fire ;
So, while my thought has life, it needs
must burn,
And burning, set the stubble-fields
ablaze,
Where all the harvest long ago was
reaped
And safely garnered in the ancient barns,
But still the gleaners, groping for their
food,
Go blindly feeling through the close-
shorn straw,
While the young reapers flash their glit
tering steel
Where later suns have ripened nobler
grain !
X.
TRUTHS.
THE time is racked with birth-pangs;
every hour
Brings forth some gasping truth, and
truth new-born
Looks a misshapen and untimely
growth,
The terror of the household and its
shame,
A monster coiling in its nurse's lap
That some would strangle, some would
only starve ;
But still it breathes, and passed from
hand to hand,
And suckled at a hundred half-clad
breasts,
Comes slowly to its stature and its form,
Calms the rough ridges of its dragon-
scales,
Changes to shining locks its snaky
hair,
And moves transfigured into angel guise,
Welcomed by all that cursed its hour of
birth,
And folded in the same encircling arms
That cast it like a serpent from their
hold!
If thou wouldst live in honor, die in
peace,
Have the fine words the marble-workers
learn
To carve so well, upon thy funeral-stone,
And earn a fair obituary, dressed
In all the many-colored robes of praise,
Be deafer than the adder to the cry
Of that same foundling truth, until it
grows
To seemly favor, and at length has won
The smiles of hard-mouthed men and
light-lipped dames ;
Then snatch it from its meagre nurse's
breast,
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DKIFTS.
201
Fold it in silk and give it food from
gold;
So shalt thou share its glory when at
last
It drops its mortal vesture, and revealed
In all the splendor of its heavenly form,
Spreads on the startled air its mighty
wings !
Alas ! how much that seemed immor-
tal truth
That heroes fought for, martyrs died to
save,
Reveals its earth-horn lineage, growing
old
And limping in its march, its wings un-
plmned,
Its heavenly semblance faded like a
dream !
Here in this painted casket, just un-
sealed,
Lies what was once a breathing shape
like thine,
Once loved as thou art loved ; there
beamed the eyes
That looked on Memphis in its hour of
pride,
That saw the walls of hundred-gated
Thebes,
And all the mirrored glories of the Nile.
See how they toiled that all-consuming
time
Might leave the frame immortal in its
tomb ;
Filled it with fragrant balms and odor-
ous gums
That still diffuse their sweetness through
the air,
And wound and wound with patient fold
on fold
The flaxen bands thy hand has rudely
torn !
Perchance thou yet canst see the faded
stain
Of the sad mourner's tear.
XL
IDOLS.
BUT what is this ?
The sacred beetle, bound upon the breast
Of the blind heathen ! Snatch the curi-
ous prize,
Give it a place among thy treasured
spoils
Fossil and relic, corals, encrinites,
The fly in amber and the fish in stone,
The twisted circlet of Etruscan gold,
Medal, intaglio, poniard, poison-ring,
Place for the Memphian beetle with
thine hoard !
Ah ! longer than thy creed has blest
the world
This toy, thus ravished from thy broth-
er's breast,
Was to the heart of Mizraim as divine,
As holy, as the symbol that we lay
On the still bosom of our white-robed
dead,
And raise above their dust that all may
know
Here sleeps an heir of glory. Loving
friends,
With tears of trembling faith and chok-
ing sobs,
And prayers to those who judge of mor-
tal deeds,
Wrapped this poor image in the cere-
ment's fold
That Isis and Osiris, friends of man,
Might know their own and claim the
ransomed soul.
An idol ? Man was born to worship
such !
An idol is an image of his thought ;
Sometimes he carves it out of gleaming
stone,
And sometimes moulds it out of glitter-
ing gold,
202
POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Or rounds it in a mighty frescoed dome,
Or lifts it heavenward in a lofty spire,
Or shapes it in a cunning frame of words,
Or pays his priest to make it day by day ;
For sense must have its god as well as
soul ;
A new-born Dian calls for silver shrines,
And Egypt's holiest symbol is our own,
The sign we worship as did they of old
When Isis and Osiris ruled the world.
Let us be true to our most subtle
selves,
We long to have our idols like the rest.
Think ! when the men of Israel had
their God
Encamped among them, talking with
their chief,
Leading them in the pillar of the cloud
And watching o'er them in the shaft of
fire,
They still must have an image ; still
they longed
For somewhat of substantial, solid form
Whereon to hang their garlands, and to
fix
Their wandering thoughts and gain a
stronger hold
For their uncertain faith, not yet assured
If those same meteors of the day and
night
Were not mere exhalations of the soil.
Are we less earthly than the chosen
race ?
Are we more neighbors of the living God
Than they who gathered manna every
morn,
Reaping where none had sown, and heard
the voice
Of him who met the Highest in the
mount,
And brought them tables, graven with
His hand ?
Yet these must have their idol, brought
their gold,
That star-browed Apis might be god
again ;
Yea, from their ears the women brake
the rings
That lent such splendors to the gypsy
brown
Of sunburnt cheeks, what more could
woman do
To show her pious zeal? They went
astray,
But nature led them as it leads us all.
We too, who mock at Israel's golden
calf
And scoff at Egypt's sacred scarabee,
Would have our amulets to clasp and
kiss,
And flood with rapturous tears, and bear
with us
To be our dear companions in the dust ;
Such magic works an image in our souls !
Man is an embryo ; see at twenty years
His bones, the columns that uphold his
frame
Not yet cemented, shaft and capital,
Mere fragments of the temple incom-
plete.
Attwoscore, threescore, is he then full
grown ?
Nay, still a child, and as the little maids
Dress and undress their puppets, so he
tries
To dress a lifeless creed, as if it lived,
And change its raiment when the world
cries shame !
We smile to see our little ones at play
So grave, so thoughtful, with maternal
care
Nursing the wisps of rags they call their
babes ;
Does He not smile who sees us with the
toys
We call by sacred names, and idly feign
To be what we have called them ? He
is still
WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.
203
The Father of this helpless nursery-
brood,
Whose second childhood joins so close
its first,
That in the crowding, hurrying years
between
We scarce have trained our senses to
their task
Before the gathering mist has dimmed
our eyes,
And with our hollowed palm we help
our ear,
And trace with trembling hand' our
wrinkled names,
And then begin to tell our stories o'er,
And see not hear the whispering
lips that say,
"You know ? Your father knew
him. This is he,
Tottering and leaning on the hireling's
arm,"
And so, at length, disrobed of all that
clad
The simple life we share with weed and
worm,
Go to our cradles, naked as we came.
XII.
LOVE.
WHAT if a soul redeemed, a spirit that
loved
While yet on earth and was beloved in
turn,
And still remembered every look and
tone
Of that dear earthly sister who was left
Among the unwise virgins at the gate,
Itself admitted with the bridegroom's
train,
What if this spirit redeemed, amid the
host
Of chanting angels, in some transient
lull
Of the eternal anthem, heard the cry
Of its lost darling, whom in evil hour
Some wilder pulse of nature, led astray
And left an outcast in a world of fire,
Condemned to be the sport of cruel
fiends,
Sleepless, unpitying, masters of the skill
To wring the maddest ecstasies of pain
From worn-out souls that only ask to
die,
Would it not long to leave the bliss of
Heaven,
Bearing a little water in its hand
To moisten those poor lips that plead in
vain
With Him we call our Father ? Or is all
So changed in such as taste celestial joy
They hear unmoved the endless wail of
woe;
The daughter in the same dear tones
that hushed
Her cradled slumbers ; she who once
had held
A babe upon her bosom from its voice
Hoarse with its cry of anguish, yet the
same?
No ! not in ages when the Dreadful
Bird
Stamped his huge footprints, and the
Fearful Beast
Strode with the flesh about those fossil
bones
We build to mimic life with pygmy
hands,
Not in those earliest days when men
ran wild
And gashed each other with their knives
of stone,
When their low foreheads bulged in
ridgy brows
And their flat hands were callous in the
palm
With walking in the fashion of their
sires,
204 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Grope as they might to find a cruel god
To work their will on such as human
wrath
Had wrought its worst to torture, and
had left
With rage unsated, white and stark and
cold,
Could hate have shaped a demon more
malign
Than him the dead men mummied in
their creed
And taught their trembling children to
adore !
Made in his image ! Sweet and gra-
cious souls
Dear to my heart by nature's fondest
names,
Is not your memory still the precious
mould
That lends its form to Him who hears
my prayer ?
Thus only I behold him, like to them,
Long-suffering, gentle, ever slow to
wrath,
If wrath it be that only wounds to heal,
Ready to meet the wanderer ere he reach
The door he seeks, forgetful of his sin,
Longing to clasp him in a father's arms,
And seal his pardon with a pitying tear !
Four gospels tell their story to man-
kind,
And none so full of soft, caressing words
That bring the Maid of Bethlehem and
her Babe
Before our tear-dimmed eyes, as his who
learned
In the meek service of his gracious art
The tones which like the medicinal balms
That calm the sufferer's anguish, soothe
our souls.
that the loving woman, she who sat
So long a listener at her Master's feet,
Had left us Mary's Gospel, all she
heard
Too sweet, too subtle for the ear of man !
Mark how the tender-hearted mothers
read
The messages of love between the lines
Of the same page that loads the bitter
tongue
Of him who deals in terror as his trade
With threatening words of wrath that
scorch like flame !
They tell of angels whispering round
the bed
Of the sweet infant smiling in its dream,
Of lambs enfolded in the Shepherd's
arms,
Of Him who blessed the children ; of
the land
Where crystal rivers feed unfading
flowers,
Of cities golden-paved with streets of
pearl,
Of the white robes the winged creatures
wear,
The crowns and harps from whose melo-
dious strings
One long, sweet anthem flows forever-
more !
We too had human mothers, even
as Thou,
Whom we have learned to worship as
remote
From mortal kindred, wast a cradled
babe.
The milk of woman filled our branching
veins,
She lulled us with her tender nursery-
song,
And folded round us her untiring arms,
While the first unremembered twilight
year
Shaped us to conscious being ; still, we
feel
Her pulses in our own, too faintly
feel;
Would that the heart of woman warmed
our creeds !
EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE SERIES.
205
Not from the sad-eyed hermit's lonely
cell,
Not from the conclave where the holy
men
Glare on each other, as with angry eyes
They battle for God's glory and their
own,
Till, sick of wordy strife, a show of
hands
Fixes the faith of ages yet unborn,
Ah, not from these the listening soul
can hear
The Father's voice that speaks itself
divine ! .
Love must be still our Master ; till we
learn
"What he can teach us of a woman's
heart,
We know not His, whose love embraces
all.
EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE
SERIES.
AUTOCRAT PROFESSOR POET.
AT A BOOKSTORE.
Anno Domini 1972.
A CRAZY bookcase, placed before
A low-price dealer's open door ;
Therein arrayed in broken rows
A ragged crew of rhyme and prose,
The homeless vagrants, waifs and strays
Whose low estate this line betrays
(Set forth the lesser birds to lime)
YOUR CHOICE AMONG THESE BOOKS, 1
DIME !
Ho ! dealer ; for its motto's sake
This scarecrow from the shelf I take ;
Three starveling volumes bound in one,
Its covers warping in the sun.
Methinks it hath a musty smell,
I like its flavor none too well,
But Yorick's brain was far from dull,
Though Hamlet pah I'd, and dropped
his skull.
Why, here comes rain ! The sky grows
dark,
Was that the roll of thunder ? Hark !
The shop affords a safe retreat,
A chair extends its welcome seat,
The tradesman has a civil look
(I 've paid, impromptu, for my book),
The clouds portend a sudden shower,
I '11 read my purchase for an hour.
* * *
What have I rescued from the shelf ?
A Boswell, writing out himself !
For though he changes dress and name,
The man beneath is still the same,
Laughing or sad, by fits and starts,
One actor in a dozen parts,
And whatsoe'er the mask may be,
The voice assures us, This is he.
I say not this to cry him down ;
I find my Shakespeare in his clown,
His rogues the selfsame parent own ;
Nay ! Satan talks in Milton's tone !
Where'er the ocean inlet strays,
The salt sea wave its source betrays,
Where'er the queen of summer blows,
She tells the zephyr, " I 'm the rose ! "
And his is not the playwright's page ;
His table does not ape the stage ;
What matter if the figures seen
Are only shadows on a screen,
He finds in them his lurking thought,
And on their lips the words he sought,
Like one who sits before the keys
And plays a tune himself to please.
And was he noted in his day ?
Read, flattered, honored ? Who shall
say?
Poor wreck of time the wave has cast
To find a peaceful shore at last,
206 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Once glorying in thy gilded name
And freighted deep with hopes of fame,
Thy leaf is moistened with a tear,
The first for many a long, long year !
For be it more or less of art
That veils the lowliest human heart
Where passion throbs, where friendship
glows,
Where pity's tender tribute flows,
Where love has lit its fragrant fire,
And sorrow quenched its vain desire,
For me the altar is divine,
Its flame, its ashes, all are mine !
And thou, my brother, as I look
And see thee pictured in thy book,
Thy years on every page confessed
In shadows lengthening from the west,
Thy glance that wanders, as it sought
Some freshly opening flower of thought,
Thy hopeful nature, light and free,
I start to find myself in thee !
* * *
Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch for-
lorn
In leather jerkin stained and torn,
Whose talk has filled my idle hour
And made me half forget the shower,
I '11 do at least as much for you,
Your coat I '11 patch, your gilt renew,
Read you perhaps some other time.
Not bad, my bargain ! Price one dime !
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
1851 - 1877.
BILL AND JOE.
COME, dear old comrade, you and I
"Will steal an hour from days gone by,
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
"When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare ;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.
You've won the great world's envied
prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H K and L L. D.
In big brave letters, fair to see,
Your fist, old fellow ! off they go !
How are you, Bill ? How are you, Joe ?
You Ve worn the judge's ermined robe ;
You Ve taught your name to half the
globe ;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain ;
You 've made the dead past live again :
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.
The chaffing young folks stare and say
"See those old buffers, bent and gray,
They talk like fellows in their teens !
Mad, poor old boys ! That 's what it
means,"
And shake their heads ; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe !
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side ;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,
Those calm, stem eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.
Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame ?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame ;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust ;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill and which was
Joe?
The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,
How vain it seems, this empty show !
Till all at once his pulses thrill ;
'T is poor old Joe's "God bless you,
Bill ! "
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears ;
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
208
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe ?
No matter ; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear ;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones
say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hie jacet Joe. Hie jacet Bill.
1851.
A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE"
THE summer dawn is breaking
On Auburn's tangled bowers,
The golden light is waking
On Harvard's ancient towers ;
The sun is in the sky
That must see us do or die,
Ere it shine on the line
Of the CLASS OF '29.
At last the day is ended,
The tutor screws no more,
By doubt and fear attended
Each hovers round the door,
Till the good old Prseses cries,
While the tears stand in his eyes,
" You have passed, and are classed
With the BOYS OF '29."
Not long are they in making
The college halls their own,
Instead of standing shaking,
Too bashful to be known ;
But they kick, the Seniors' shins
Ere the second week begins,
When they stray in the way
Of the BOYS OF '29.
If a jolly set is trolling
The last Der Freischidz airs,
Or a "cannon bullet" rolling
Comes bouncing down the stairs,
The tutors looking out,
Sigh, " Alas ! there is no doubt,
'T is the noise of the Boys
Of the CLASS OF '29."
Four happy years together,
By storm and sunshine tried,
In changing wind and weather,
They rough it side by side,
Till they hear their Mother cry,
' ' You are Hedged, and you must fly, "
And the bell tolls the knell
Of the days of '29.
Since then in peace or trouble,
Full many a year has rolled,
And life has counted double
The days that then we told ;
Yet we '11 end as we 've begun,
For though scattered, we are one,
While each year sees us here,
Round the board of '29.
Though fate may throw between us
The mountains or the sea,
No time shall ever wean us,
No distance set us free ;
But around the yearly board,
When the flaming pledge is poured,
It shall claim every name
On the roll of '29.
To yonder peaceful ocean
That glows with sunset fires,
Shall reach the warm emotion
This welcome day inspires,
Beyond the ridges cold
Where a brother toils for gold,
Till it shine through the mine
Round the BOY OF '29.
If one whom fate has broken
Shall lift a moistened eye,
We '11 say, before he 's spoken
" Old Classmate, don't you cry !
QUESTIONS AND ANSWEKS. AN IMPROMPTU.
209
Here, take the purse I hold,
There 's a tear upon the gold
It was mine it is thine
A'n't we BOYS OF '29 ? "
As nearer still and nearer
The fatal stars appear,
The living shall be dearer
"With each encircling year,
Till a few old men shall say
" We remember 't is the day
Let it pass with a glass
For the CLASS OF '29."
As one by one is falling
Beneath the leaves or snows,
Each memory still recalling
The broken ring shall close,
Till the nightwinds softly pass
O'er the green and growing grass,
Where it waves on the graves
Of the BOYS OF '29 !
1852.
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.
WHERE, where are the visions of
morning,
Fresh as the dews of our prime ?
Gone, like tenants that quit without
warning,
Down the back entry of time.
Where, where are life's lilies and roses,
Nursed in the golden dawn's smile?
Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses,
On the old banks of the Nile.
Where are the Marys, and Anns, and
Elizas,
Loving and lovely of yore ?
Look in the columns of old Adver-
tisers,
Married and dead by the score.
Where the gray colts and the ten-year-
old fillies,
Saturday's triumph and joy ?
Gone, like our friend Trodas WKVS Achilles,
Homer's ferocious old boy.
Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion,
Hopes like young eagles at play,
Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion,
How ye have faded away !
Yet, though the ebbing of Time's mighty
river
Leave our young blossoms to die,
Let him roll smooth in his current for-
ever,
Till the last pebble is dry.
1853.
AN IMPROMPTU.
Not premeditated.
THE clock has struck noon ; ere it thrice
tell the hours
We shall meet round the table that
blushes with flowers,
And I shall blush deeper with shame-
driven blood
That I came to the banquet and brought
not a bud.
Who cares that his verse is a beggar in
art
If you see through its rags the full throb
of his heart ?
Who asks if his comrade is battered and
tanned
When he feels his warm soul in the clasp
of his hand ?
No ! be it an epic, or be it a line,
The Boys will all love it because it is
mine ;
I sung their last song on the morn of
the day
210
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
That tore from their lives the last blos-
som of May.
It is not the sunset that glows in the
wine,
But the smile that beams over it, makes
it divine ;
I scatter these drops, and behold, as
they fall,
The day-star of memory shines through
them all !
And these are the last ; they are drops
that I stole
From a wine-press that crushes the life
from the soul,
But they ran through my heart and they
sprang to rny brain
Till our twentieth sweet summer was
smiling again !
1854.
THE OLD MAN DREAMS.
for one hour of youthful joy !
Give back my twentieth spring !
1 'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,
Than reign, a gray-beard king.
Off with the spoils of wrinkled age !
Away with Learning's crown !
Tear out life's Wisdom- written page,
And dash its trophies down !
One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of flame !
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and fame !
My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
" If I but touch thy silvered hair
Thy hasty wish hath sped.
" But is there nothing in thy track,
To bid thee fondly stay,
While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day ? "
"Ah, truest soul of womankind !
Without thee what were life ?
One bliss I cannot leave behind :
I '11 take my precious wife ! '
The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew,
The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband too I
" And is there nothing yet unsaid,
Before the change appears ?
Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years."
" Why yes " ; for memory would recall
My fond paternal joys ;
" I could not bear to leave them all
I '11 take my girl and boys."
The smiling angel dropped his pen,
' ' Why this will never do ;
The man would be a boy again,
And be a father too ! "
1855.
REMEMBER -FORGET.
AND what shall be the song to-night,
If song there needs must be ?
If every year that brings us here
Must steal an hour from me ?
Say, shall it ring a merry peal,
Or heave a mourning sigh
O'er shadows cast, by years long past,
On moments flitting by ?
Nay, take the first unbidden line
The idle hour may send,
No studied grace can mend the face
That smiles as friend on friend ;
OUR INDIAN SUMMER.
211
The balsam oozes from the pine,
The sweetness from the rose,
And so, unsought, .a kindly thought
Finds language as it flows.
The years rush by in sounding flight,
I hear their ceaseless wings ;
Their songs I hear, some far, some near,
And thus the burden rings :
"The morn has fled, the noon has past,
The sun will soon be set,
The twilight fade to midnight shade ;
Remember and Forget ! "
Remember all that time has brought
The starry hope on high,
The strength attained, the courage gained,
The love that cannot die.
Forget the bitter, brooding thought,
The word too harshly said,
The living blame love hates to name,
The frailties of the dead !
"We have been younger, so they say,
But let the seasons roll,
He doth not lack an almanac,
Whose youth is in his soul.
The snows may clog life's iron track,
But does the axle tire,
While bearing swift through bank and
drift
The engine's heart of fire ?
I lift a goblet in my hand ;
If good old wine it hold,
An ancient skin to keep it in,
Is just the thing, we 're told.
We 're grayer than the dusty flask,
We 're older than our wine ;
Our corks reveal the "white top" seal,
The stamp of '29.
Ah, Boys ! we clustered in the dawn,
To sever in the dark ;
A merry crew, with loud hnlloo,
We climbed our painted bark ;
We sailed her through the four years'
cruise,
We '11 sail her to the last,
Our dear old flag, though but a rag,
Still flying on her mast.
So gliding on, each winter's gale
Shall pipe us all on deck,
Till, faint and few, the gathering crew
Creep o'er the parting wreck,
Her sails and streamers spread aloft
To fortune's rain or shine,
Till storm or sun shall all be one,
And down goes TWENTY-NINE !
1856.
OUR INDIAN SUMMER.
You '11 believe me, dear boys, 't is a
pleasure to rise,
With a welcome like this in your dar-
ling old eyes;
To meet the same smiles and to hear
the same tone,
Which have greeted me oft in the years
that have flown.
Were I gray as the grayest old rat in
the wall,
My locks would turn brown at the sight
of you all ;
If my heart were as dry as the shell on
the sand,
It would fill like the goblet I hold in
my hand.
There are noontides of autumn when
summer returns,
Though the leaves are all garnered and
sealed in their urns,
And the bird on his perch that was
silent so long,
Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks
into song.
212
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
"We have caged the young birds of our
beautiful June ;
Their plumes are still bright and their
voices in tune ;
One moment of sunshine from faces like
these
And they sing as they sung in the
green-growing trees.
The voices of morning! how sweet is
their thrill
"When the shadows have turned, and
the evening grows still !
The text of our lives may get wiser with
age,
But the print was so fair on its twen-
tieth page !
Look off from your goblet and up from
your plate ;
Come, take the last journal, and glance
at its date :
Then think what we fellows should say
and should do,
If the 6 were a 9 and the 5 were a 2.
Ah, no ! for the shapes that would meet
with us here,
From the far land of shadows, are ever
too dear !
Though youth flung around us its pride
and its charms,
"We should see but the comrades we
clasped in our arms.
A health to our future a sigh for our
past,
We love, we remember, we hope to the
last;
And for all the base lies that the
almanacs hold,
"While we 've youth in our hearts we can
never grow old !
1858.
MARE RUBRUM.
FLASH out a stream of blood-red wine,
For I would drink to other days,
And brighter shall their memory shine,
Seen flaming through its crimson
blaze !
The roses die, the summers fade,
But every ghost of boyhood's dream
By nature's magic power is laid
To sleep beneath this blood-red
stream !
It filled the purple grapes that lay,
And drank the splendors of the sun,
Where the long summer's cloudless day
Is mirrored in the broad Garonne ;
It pictures still the bacchant shapes
That saw their hoarded sunlight
shed,
The maidens dancing on the grapes,
Their milk-white ankles splashed with
red.
Beneath these waves of crimson lie,
In rosy fetters prisoned fast,
Those flitting shapes that never die,
The swift-winged visions of the past.
Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim
Each shadow rends its flowery chain,
Springs in a bubble from its brim
And walks the chambers of the brain.
Poor beauty ! Time and fortune's wrong
No shape nor feature may withstand ;
Thy wrecks are scattered all along,
Like emptied sea-shells on the sand ;
Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain,
The dust restores each blooming girl,
As if the sea-shells moved again
Their glistening lips of pink and pearl.
:Iere lies the home of school- boy life,
With creaking stair and wind-swept
hall,
THE BOYS.
213
And, scarred by many a truant knife,
Our old initials on the wall ;
Here rest, their keen vibrations mute,
The shout of voices known so well,
The ringing laugh, the wailing flute,
The chiding of the sharp-tougued bell.
Here, clad in burning robes, are laid
Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed,
And here those cherished forms have
strayed
We miss awhile, and call them dead.
What wizard tills the wondrous glass ?
What soil the enchanted clusters
grew?
That buried passions wake and pass
In beaded drops of fiery dew ?
Nay ! take the cup of blood-red wine,
Our hearts can boast a warmer glow,
Filled from a vintage more divine,
Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's
snow !
To-night the palest wave we sip
Rich as the priceless draught shall be
That wet the bride of Cana's lip,
The wedding wine of Galilee !
1859.
THE BOYS.
HAS there any old fellow got mixed
with the boys ?
If there has, take him out, without mak-
ing a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Cat-
alogue's spite !
Old time is a liar ! We 're twenty to-
night !
We 're twenty ! We 're twenty ! Who
says we are more ?
He's tipsy, young jackanapes ! show
him the door !
"Gray temples at twenty?" Yes!
white if we please ;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest
there 's nothing can freeze !
Was it snowing I spoke of ? Excuse the
mistake !
Look close, you will see not a sign of
a flake !
We want some new garlands for those
we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the
red.
We 've a trick, we young fellows, you
may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were
old:
That boy we call " Doctor," and this we
call "Judge " ;
It 's a neat little fiction, of course it 's
all fudge.
That fellow 's the " Speaker," the one
on the right ;
" Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are
you to-night ?
That 's our "Member of Congress," we
say when we chaff ;
There's the "Reverend" What's his
name ? don't make me laugh.
That boy with the grave mathematical
look
Made believe he had written a wonderful
book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was
true !
So they chose him right in ; a good joke
it was, too !
There 's a boy, we pretend, with a three-
decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical
chain ;
214
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
When he spoke for our manhood in syl-
labled fire,
We called him " The Justice," but now
he 's " The Squire."
And there 's a nice youngster of excel-
lent pith,
Fate tried to conceal him by naming
him Smith ;
But he shouted a song for the brave and
the free,
Just read on his medal, " My country,"
"of thee !"
You hear that boy laughing? You
think he 's all fun ;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good
he has done ;
The children laugh loud as they troop to
his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs
loudest of all !
Yes, we 're boys, always playing with
tongue or with pen,
And I sometimes have asked, Shall we
ever be men ?
Shall we always be youthful, and laugh-
ing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smil-
ing away ?
Then here 's to our boyhood, its gold and
its gray !
The stars of its winter, the dews of its
May !
And when we have done with our life-
lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children,
THE BOYS !
1860.
LINES.
'M ashamed, that 's the fact, it 's
a pitiful case,
Won't any kind classmate get up in my
place ?
Just remember how often I 've risen be-
fore,
I blush as I straighten my legs on the
floor!
There are stories, once pleasing, too many
times told,
There are beauties once charming, too
fearfully old,
There are voices we 've heard till we know
them so well,
Though they talked for an hour they 'd
have nothing to tell.
Yet, Classmates ! Friends ! Brothers !
dear blessed old boys !
Made one by a lifetime of sorrows and
joys,
What lips have such sounds as the poor-
est of these,
Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musi-
cal bees ?
What voice is so sweet and what greet-
ing so dear
As the simple, warm welcome that waits
for us here ?
The love of our boyhood still breathes in
its tone,
And our hearts throb the answer, "He 's
one of our own ! "
Nay ! count not our numbers ; some
sixty we know,
But these are above, and those under the
snow ;
And thoughts are still mingled wherever
we meet
For those we remember with those that
we greet.
We have rolled on life's journey, how
fast and how far !
One round of humanity's many-wheeled
car,
A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH. J. D. K.
215
But up-hill and down-hill, through rat-
tle and rub,
Old, true Twenty-niners ! we 've stuck
to our hub !
While a brain lives to think, or a bosom
to feel,
We will cling to it still like the spokes
of a wheel !
And age, as it chills us, shall fasten the
tire
That youth fitted round in his circle of
fire!
1861.
(JANUARY SD.)
A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH.
WE sing "Our Country's" song to-night
With saddened voice and eye ;
Her banner droops in clouded light
Beneath the wintiy sk} T .
We '11 pledge her once in golden wine
Before her stars have set :
Though dim one reddening orb may
shine,
We have a Country yet.
'T were vain to sigh o'er errors past,
The fault of sires or sons ;
Our soldier heard the threatening blast,
And spiked his useless guns ;
He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall,
By mad invaders torn ;
But saw it from the bastioned wall
That laughed their rage to scorn !
What though their angry cry is flung
Across the howling wave,
They smite the air with idle tongue
The gathering storm who brave ;
Enough of speech ! the trumpet rings ;
Be silent, patient, calm,
God help them if the tempest swings
The pine against the palm !
Our toilsome years have made us tame*;
Our strength has slept unfelt ;
The furnace-fire is slow to flame
That bids our ploughshares melt ;
'T is hard to lose the bread they win
In spite of Nature's frowns,
To drop the iron threads we spin
That weave our web of towns,
To see the rusting turbines stand
Before the emptied flumes,
To fold the arms that flood the land
With rivers from their looms,
But harder still for those who learn
The truth forgot so long ;
When once their slumbering passions
burn,
The peaceful are the strong !
The Lord have mercy on the weak,
And calm their frenzied ire,
And save our brothers ere they shriek,
" We played with Northern fire ! "
The eagle hold his mountain height,
The tiger pace his den !
Give all their country, each his right !
God keep us all ! Amen !
1862.
J. D. R.
THE friends that are, and friends that
were,
What shallow waves divide !
I miss the form for many a year
Still seated at my side.
I miss him, yet I feel him still
Amidst our faithful band,
As if not death itself could chill
The warmth of friendship's hand.
His story other lips may tell,
For me the veil is drawn ;
I only know he loved me well,
He loved me and is gone !
216
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
1862.
VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION.
'T is midnight : through my troubled
dream
Loud wails the tempest's cry ;
Before the gale, with tattered sail,
A ship goes plunging by.
What name? Where bound? The
rocks around
Repeat the loud halloo.
The good ship Union, Southward
bound :
God help her and her crew !
And is the old flag flying still
That o'er your fathers flew,
With bands of white and rosy light,
And field of starry blue ?
Ay ! look aloft ! its folds full oft
Have braved the roaring blast,
And still shall fly when from the sky
This black typhoon has past !
Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark !
May I thy peril share ?
landsman, these are fearful seas
The brave alone may dare !
Nay, ruler of the rebel deep,
What matters wind or wave ?
The rocks that wreck your reeling deck
Will leave me naught to save !
landsman, art thou false or true ?
What sign hast thou to show ?
The crimson stains from loyal veins
That hold my heart-blood's flow !
Enough ! what more shall honor
claim ?
I know the sacred sign ;
Above thy head our flag shall spread,
Our ocean path be thine !
The bark sails on ; the Pilgrim's Cape
Lies low along her lee,
Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes
To lock the shore and sea.
No treason here ! it cost too dear
To win this barren realm !
And true and free the hands must be
That hold the whaler's helm !
Still on ! Manhattan's narrowing bay
No Rebel cruiser scars ;
Her waters feel no pirate's keel
That flaunts the fallen stars !
But watch the light on yonder
height,
Ay, pilot, have a care !
Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud
The capes of Delaware !
Say, pilot, what this fort may be,
Whose sentinels look down
From moated walls that show the sea
Their deep embrasures' frown ?
The Rebel host claims all the coast,
But these are friends, we know,
Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil,"
And this is ? Fort Monroe !
The breakers roar, how bears the
shore ?
The traitorous wreckers' hands
Have quenched the blaze that poured
its rays
Along the Hatteras sands.
Ha ! say not so ! I see its glow !
Again the shoals display
The beacon light that shines by night,
The Union Stars by day !
The good ship flies to milder skies,
The wave more gently flows,
The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas '
The breath of Beaufort's rose.
What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,
Fair-striped and many-starred,
Whose shadow palls these orphaned
walls,
The twins of Beauregard ?
"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE.
217
What ! heard you not Port Royal's doom ?
How the black war-ships came
And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom
To redder wreaths of flame ?
How from Rebellion's broken reed
We saw his emblem fall,
As soon his cursed poison-weed
Shall drop from Sumter's wall ?
On I on ! Pulaski's iron hail
Falls harmless on Tybee !
The good ship feels the freshening gales,
She strikes the open sea ;
She rounds the point, she threads the
keys
That guard the Land of Flowers,
And rides at last where firm and fast
Her own Gibraltar towers !
The good ship Union's voyage is o'er,
At anchor safe she swings,
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer
Her joyous welcome rings :
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! it shakes the wave,
It thunders on the shore,
One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,
One Nation, evermore !
1863.
"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE
WILL SERVE."
YES, tyrants, you hate us, and fear while
you hate
The self-ruling, chain-breaking, throne-
shaking State !
The night-birds dread morning, your
instinct is true,
The day-star of Freedom brings midnight
for you !
Why plead with the deaf for the cause
of mankind ?
The owl hoots at noon that the eagle is
blind !
We ask not your reasons, 't were wast-
ing our time,
Our life is a menace, our welfare a crime !
We have battles to fight, we have foes to
subdue,
Time waits not for us, and we wait not
for you !
The mower mows on, though the adder
may writhe
And the copper-head coil round the blade
of his scythe !
"No sides in this quarrel," your states-
men may urge,
Of school-house and wages with slave-
pen and scourge !
No sides in the quarrel ! proclaim it as
well
To the angels that fight with the legions
of hell !
They kneel in God's temple, the North
and the South,
With blood on each weapon and prayers
in each mouth.
Whose cry shall be answered ? Ye
Heavens, attend
The lords of the lash as their voices
ascend !
" Lord, we are shaped in the image
of Thee,
Smite down the base millions that claim
to be free,
And lend Thy strong arm to the soft-
handed race
Who eat not their bread in the sweat of
their face ! "
So pleads the proud planter. What
echoes are these ?
The bay of his bloodhound is borne on
the breeze,
And, lost in the shriek of his victim's
despair,
218
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
His voice dies unheard. Hear the Pu-
ritau's prayer !
" Lord, that didst smother mankind
in Thy flood,
The sun is as sackcloth, the moon is as
blood,
The stars fall to earth as untimely are
cast
The figs from the fig-tree that shakes in
the blast !
" All nations, all tribes in whose nostrils
is breath,
Stand gazing at Sin as she travails with
Death !
Lord, strangle the monster that strug-
gles to birth,
Or mock us no more with Thy * Kingdom
on Earth ! '
" If Ammon and Moab must reign in the
land
Thou gavest Thine Israel, fresh from
Thy hand,
Call Baal and Ashtaroth out of their
graves
To be the new gods for the empire of
slaves ! "
Whose God will ye serve, ye rulers
of men ?
Will ye build you new shrines in the
slave-breeder's den ?
Or bow with the children of light, as
they call
On the Judge of the Earth and the
Father of All ?
Choose wisely, choose quickly, for time
moves apace,
Each day is an age in the life of our race !
Lord, lead them in love, ere they hasten
in fear
From the fast-rising flood that shall gir-
dle the sphere !
1864.
*
F. W. C.
FAST as the rolling seasons bring
The hour of fate to those we love,
Each pearl that leaves the broken string
Is set in Friendship's crown above.
As narrower grows the earthly chain,
The circle widens in the sky ;
These are our treasures that remain,
But those are stars that beam on high.
We miss 0, how we miss ! his face,
With trembling accents speak his
name.
Earth cannot fill his shadowed place
From all her rolls of pride and fame ;
Our song has lost the silvery thread
That carolled through his jocund lips ;
Our laugh is mute, our smile is fled,
And all our sunshine in eclipse.
And what and whence the wondrous
charm
That kept his manhood boylike still,
That life's hard censors could disarm
And lead them captive at his will ?
His heart was shaped of rosier clay,
His veins were filled with ruddier
fire,
Time could not chill him, fortune sway,
Nor toil with all its burdens tire.
His speech burst throbbing from its
fount
And set our colder thoughts aglow,
As the hot leaping geysers mount
And falling melt the Iceland snow.
Some word, perchance, we counted
rash,
Some phrase our calmness might dis-
claim,
Yet 't was the sunset's lightning's flash,
No angry bolt, but harmless flame.
THE LAST CHARGE.
219
Man judges all, God knoweth each ;
We read the rule, He sees the law ;
How oft his laughing children teach
The truths his prophets never saw !
friend, whose wisdom flowered in
mirth,
Our hearts are sad, our eyes are
dim ;
He gave thy smiles to brighten earth,
We trust thy joyous soul to Him !
Alas ! our weakness Heaven forgive !
We murmur, even while we trust,
"How long earth's breathing burdens
live,
Whose hearts, before they die, are
dust ! "
But thou ! through griefs untimely
tears
We ask with half-reproachful sigh
"Couldst thou not watch a few brief
years
Till Friendship faltered, ' Thou mayst
die'?"
Who loved our boyish years so well ?
Who knew so well their pleasant
tales,
And all those livelier freaks could tell
Whose oft-told story never fails ?
In vain we turn our aching eyes,
In vain we stretch our eager hands,
Cold in his wintry shroud he lies
Beneath the dreary drifting sands !
Ah, speak not thus ! He lies not there !
We see him, hear him as of old !
He comes ! he claims his wonted
chair ;
His beaming face we still behold !
His voice rings clear in all our songs,
And loud his mirthful accents rise ;
To us our brother's life belongs,
Dear friends, a classmate never dies !
1864.
THE LAST CHARGE.
Now, men of the North ! will you join
in the strife
For country, for freedom, for honor, for
life?
The giant grows blind in his fury and
spite,
One blow on his forehead will settle the
fight!
Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning
of steel,
And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal
upon peal !
Mount, troopers, and follow your game
to its lair,
As the hound tracks the wolf and the
beagle the hare !
Blow, trumpets, your summons, till slug-
gards awake !
Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint-
hearted shake !
Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on
the scroll,
Their names may be traced on the blood-
sprinkled roll !
Trust not the false herald that painted
your shield :
True honor to-day must be sought on the
field!
Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon
of red,
The fife -drops of crimson for liberty
shed !
The hour is at hand, and the moment
draws nigh ;
The dog-star of treason grows dim in
the sky ;
Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light
of the morn,
220
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
Call back the bright hour when the
Nation was born !
The rivers of peace through our valleys
shall run,
As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the
sun ;
Smite, smite the proud parricide down
from his throne,
His sceptre once broken, the world is
our own !
1865.
OUR OLDEST FRIEND.
I GIVE you the health -of the oldest
friend
That, short of eternity, earth can lend,
A friend so faithful and tried and true
That nothing can wean him from me
and you.
When first we screeched in the sudden
blaze
Of the daylight's blinding and blasting
rays,
And gulped at the gaseous, groggy air,
This old, old friend stood waiting there.
And when, with a kind of mortal strife,
We had gasped and choked into breath-
ing life,
He watched by the cradle, day and night,
And held our hands till we stood upright.
From gristle and pulp our frames have
grown
To stringy muscle and solid bone ;
While we were changing, he altered not ;
We might forget, but he never forgot.
He came with us to the college class,
Little cared he for the steward's pass !
All the rest must pay their fee,
But the grim old dead-head entered free.
He stayed with us while we counted o'er
Four times each of the seasons four ;
And with every season, from year to year,
The dear name Classmate he made more
dear.
He never leaves us, he never will,
Till our hands are cold and our hearts
are still ;
On birthdays, and Christmas, and New-
Year's too,
He always remembers both me and you.
Every year this faithful friend
His little present is sure to send ;
Every year, wheresoe'er we be,
He wants a keepsake from you and me.
How he loves us ! he pats our heads,
And, lo ! they are gleaming with silver
threads ;
And he 's always begging one lock of
hair,
Till our shining crowns have nothing to
wear.
At length he will tell us, one by one,
" My child, your labor on earth is done ;
And now you must journey afar to see
My elder brother, Eternity !"
And so, when long, long years have
Some dear old fellow w r ill be the last,
Never a boy alive but he
Of all our goodly company !
When he lies down, but not till then,
Our kind Class-Angel will drop the pen
That writes in the day-book kept above
Our lifelong record of faith and love.
So here 's a health in homely rhyme
To our oldest classmate, Father Time !
May our last survivor live to be
As bald and as wise and as tougn as he !
SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH. MY ANNUAL.
221
1865.
SHERMAN'S IN SAVANNAH.
A HALF-KHYMED IMPROMPTU.
LIKE the tribes of Israel,
Fed on quails and manna,
Sherman and his glorious band
Journeyed through the rebel land,
Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand,
Marching on Savannah !
As the moving pillar shone,
Streamed the starry banner
All day long in rosy light,
Flaming splendor all the night,
Till it swooped in eagle flight
Down on doomed Savannah !
Glory be to God on high !
Shout the loud Hosanna !
Treason's wilderness is past,
Canaan's shore is won at last,
Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,
Sherman 's in Savannah !
Soon shall Richmond's tough old hide
Find a tough old tanner !
Soon from every rebel wall
Shall the rag of treason fall,
Till our banner flaps o'er all
As it crowns Savannah !
1866.
MY ANNUAL.
How long will this harp which you once
loved to hear
Cheat your lips of a smile or your eyes
of a tear ?
How long stir the echoes it wakened of
old,
While its strings were unlfroken, untar-
nished its gold ?
Dear friends of my boyhood, my words
do you wrong ;
The heart, the heart only, shall throb
in my song ;
It reads the kind answer that looks from.
your eyes,
"We w r ill bid our old harper play on
till he dies."
Though Youth, the fair angel that
looked o'er the strings,
Has lost the bright glory that gleamed
on his wings,
Though the freshness of morning has
passed from its tone,
It is still the old harp that was always
your own.
I claim not its music, each note it
affords
I strike from your heart-strings, that
lend me its chords;
I know you will listen and love to the
last,
For it trembles and thrills with the
voice of your past.
Ah, brothers ! dear brothers ! the harp
that I hold
No craftsman could string and no artisan
mould ;
He shaped it, He strung it, who fash-
ioned the lyres
That ring with the hymns of the sera-
phim choirs.
Not mine are the visions of beauty it
brings,
Not mine the faint fragrance around it
that clings ;
Those shapes are the phantoms of years
that are fled,
Those sweets breathe from roses your
summers have shed.
222
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
Each hour of the past lends its tribute
to this,
Till it blooms like a bower in the Gar-
den of Bliss ;
The thorn and the thistle may grow as
they will,
Where Friendship unfolds there is Para-
dise still.
The bird wanders careless while summer
is green,
The leaf-hidden cradle that rocked him
unseen ;
When Autumn's rude fingers the woods
have undressed,
The boughs may look bare, but they
show him his nest.
Too precious these moments ! the lustre
they fling
Is the light of our year, is the gem of
its ring,
So brimming with sunshine, we almost
forget
The rays it has lost, and its border of jet.
While round us the many-hued halo is
shod,
How dear are the living, how near are
the dead !
One circle, scarce broken, these waiting
below,
Those walking the shores where the
asphodels blow !
Not life shall enlarge it nor death shall
divide,
No brother new-born finds his place at
my side ;
No titles shall freeze us, no grandeurs
infest,
His Honor, His Worship, are boys like
the rest.
Some won the world's homage, their
names we hold dear,
But Friendship, not Fame, is the coun-
tersign here;
Make room by the conqueror crowned
in the strife
For the comrade that limps from the
battle of life !
What tongue talks of battle ? Too long
we have heard
In sorrow, in anguish, that terrible word;
It reddened the sunshine, it crimsoned
the wave,
It sprinkled our doors with the blood
of our brave.
Peace, Peace comes at last, with her
garland of white;
Peace broods in all hearts as we gather
to-night ;
The blazon of Union spreads full in the
We echo its words, We are one ! We
are one !
1867.
ALL HERE.
IT is not what we say or sing,
That keeps our charm so long un-
broken,
Though every lightest leaf we bring
May touch the heart as friendship's
token ;
Not what we sing or what we say
Can make us dearer to each other ;
We love the singer and his lay,
But love as well the silent brother.
Yet bring whate'er your garden grows,
Thrice welcome to our smiles and
praises ;
Thanks for the myrtle and the rose,
Thanks for the marigolds and daisies ;
One flower erelong we all shall claim,
Alas ! unloved of Amaryllis
ONCE MORE.
223
Nature's last blossom need I name
The wreath of threescore' s silver lilies ?
How many, brothers, meet to-night
Around our boyhood's covered embers?
Go read the treasured names aright
The old triennial list remembers :
Though twenty wear the starry sign
That tells a life has broke its tether,
The fifty-eight of 'twenty-nine
God bless THE BOYS ! are all to-
gether !
These come with joyous look and word,
With friendly grasp and cheerful
greeting,
Those smile unseen, and move unheard,
The angel guests of every meeting ;
They cast no shadow in the flame
That flushes from the gilded lustre,
But count us we are still the same ;
One earthly band, one heavenly clus-
ter !
Love dies not when he bows his head
To pass beyond the narrow portals,
The light these glowing moments shed
Wakes from their sleep our lost im-
mortals ;
They come as in their joyous prime,
Before their morning days were num-
bered,
Death stays the envious hand of Time,
The eyes have not grown dim that
slumbered !
The paths that loving souls have trod
Arch o'er the dust where worldlings
grovel
High as the zenith o'er the sod,
The cross above the Sexton's shovel !
We rise beyond the realms of day ;
They seem to stoop from spheres of
glory
With us one happy hour to stray,
While youth comes back in song and
story.
Ah ! ours is friendship true as steel
That war has tried in edge a ad tem-
per;
It writes upon its sacred seal
The priest's ubique omnes sem-
per I
It lends the sky a fairer sun
That cheers our lives with rays as
steady
As if our footsteps had begun
To print the golden streets already !
The tangling years- have clinched its
knot
Too fast for mortal strength to sunder ;
The lightning bolts of noon are shot ;
No fear of evening's idle thunder !
Too late ! too late ! no graceless hand
Shall stretch its cords in vain endeavor
To rive the close encircling band
That made and keeps us one forever !
So when upon the fated scroll
The falling stars have all descended,
And, blotted from the breathing roll,
Our little page of life is ended,
We ask but one memorial line
Traced on thy tablet, Gracious Mother:
" My children. Boys of '29.
In pace. How they loved each other ! "
1868.
ONCE MORE.
" Will I come ? " That is pleasant ! I
beg to inquire
If the gun that I carry has ever missed
fire?
And which was the muster-roll men-
tion but one
224
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
That missed your old comrade who car-
ries the gun ?
You see me as always, my hand on the
lock,
The cap on the nipple, the hammer full
cock;
It is rusty, some tell me ; I heed not
the scoff;
It is battered and bruised, but it always
goes off !
"Is it loaded?" I '11 bet you! What
does n't it hold ?
Rammed full to the muzzle with memo-
ries untold ;
Why, it scares me to fire, lest the pieces
should fly
Like the cannons that burst on the
Fourth of July !
One charge is a remnant of College-day
dreams
(Its wadding is made of forensics and
themes) ;
Ah, visions of fame ! what a flash in the
pan
As the trigger was pulled by each clever
young man !
And love ! Bless my stars, what a car-
tridge is there !
With a wadding of rose-leaves and rib-
bons and hair,
All crammed in one verse to go off at a
shot ! *
Were there ever such sweethearts ?
Of course there were not !
And next, what a load ! it will split
the old gun,
Three fingers, four fingers, five fin-
gers of fun !
Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief
and noise
Was there ever a lot like us fellows,
"The Boys" ?
Bump ! bump ! down the staircase the
cannon-ball goes,
Aha, old Professor ! Look out for your
toes!
Don't think, my poor Tutor, to sleep in
your bed,
Two * * Boys " 'twenty-niners room
over your head !
Remember the nights when the tar-barrel
blazed !
From red " Massachusetts " the war-cry
was raised ;
And "Hollis" and "Stoughton" re-
echoed the call ;
TillP poked his head out of Hoi-
worthy Hall !
Old P , as we called him, at fifty
or so,
Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full
blow ;
In ripening manhood, suppose we should
say,
Just nearing his prime, as we boys are
to-day !
0, say, can you look through the vista
of age
To the time when old Morse drove the
regular stage ?
When Lyon told tales of the long- van-
ished years,
And Lenox crept round with the rings
in his ears ?
And dost thou, my brother, remember
indeed
The days of our dealings with Willard
and Read ?
When "Dolly" was kicking and run-
ning away,
And punch came up smoking on Fille-
brovvn's tray ?
But where are the Tutors, my brother,
tell!
THE OLD CRUISER.
225
And where the Professors, remembered j
so well ?
The sturdy old Grecian of Holworthy
Hall,
And Latin, and Logic, and Hebrew,
and all ?
"They are dead, the old fellows" (we
called them so then,
Though we since have found out they
were lusty young men).
They are dead, do you tell me ? but
how do you know ?
You 've filled once too often. I doubt if
it 's so.
I 'm thinking. I 'm thinking. Is this
sixty-eight ?
It's not quite so clear. It admits of
debate.
I may have been dreaming. I rather
incline
To think yes, I 'm certain it is
'twenty-nine !
" By Zhorzhe ! " as friend Sales is ac-
customed to cry,
You tell me they 're dead," but I know
it 's a lie !
Is Jackson not President ? What was
't you said ?
It can't be ; you 're joking ; what, all
of 'em dead ?
Jim, Harry, Fred, Isaac, all
gone from our side ?
They could n't have left us, no, not if
they .tried.
Look, there 's our old Prases,
he can't find his text ;
See, P nibs his leg, as he growls
out, " The next.'"
I told you 't was nonsense. Joe, give
us a song !
Go harness up "Dolly," and fetch her
along !
Dead ! Dead ! You false graybeard, I
swear they are not !
Hurrah for Old Hickory ! 0, I forgot !
Well, one we have with us (how could
he contrive
To deal with us youngsters and still to
survive ?)
Who wore for our guidance authority's
robe,
No wonder he took to the study of Job !
And now as my load was uncommonly
large,
Let me taper it off with a classical charge ;
When that has gone off, I shall drop my
old gun
And then stand at ease, for my service
is done.
Bibamus ad Classem vocatam " The
Boys"
Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est
1 ' Noyes ";
Et floreant y valcant, mgeant tarn,
Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam /
1869.
THE OLD CRUISER.
HERE 's the old cruiser, Twenty-nine,
Forty times she 's crossed the line ;
Same old masts and sails and crew,
Tight and tough and as good as new.
Into the harbor she bravely steers
Just as she 's done for these forty
years,
Over her anchor goes, splash and clang !
Down her sails drop, rattle and bang !
Comes a vessel out of the dock
Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock,
226
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
Feathered with, sails and spurred with
steam,
Heading out of the classic stream.
Crew of a hundred all aboard,
Every man as fine as a lord.
Gay they look and proud they feel,
Bowling along on even keel.
On they float with wind and tide,
Gain at last the old ship's side ;
Every man looks down in turn,
Beads the name that 's on her stern.
" Twenty-nine ! Diable you say !
That was in Skipper Kirkland's day !
What was the Flying Dutchman's name?
This old rover must be the same.
" Ho ! you Boatswain that walks the
deck,
How does it happen you 're not a wreck ?
One and another have come to grief,
How have you dodged by rock and reef?"
Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid,
Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid :
"Hey? What is it? Who 's come to
grief?
Louder, young swab, I f m a little deaf."
" I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat
With all you jolly old boys afloat,
When scores of vessels as good as she
Have swallowed the salt of the bitter
sea?
" Many a crew from many a craft
Goes drifting by on a broken raft
Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine
Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine.
" Some capsized in an angry breeze,
Some were lost in the narrow seas,
Some on snags and some on sands
Struck and perished and lost their hands.
" Tell us young ones, you gray old man,
What is your secret, if you can.
We have a ship as good as you,
Show us how to keep our crew."
So in his ear the youngster cries ;
Then the gray Boatswain straight re-
plies :
"All your crew be sure you know,
Never let one of your shipmates go.
" If he leaves you, change your tack,
Follow him close and fetch him back ;
When you 've hauled him in at last,
Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.
" If you 've wronged him, speak him
fair,
Say you 're sorry and make it square ;
If he 's wronged you, wink so tight
None of you see what 's plain in sight.
"When the world goes hard and wrong,
Lend a hand to help him along ;
When his stockings have holes to darn,
Don't you grudge him your ball of yarn.
" Once in a twelvemonth, come what
may,
Anchor your ship in a quiet bay,
Call all hands and read the log,
And give 'em a taste of grub and grog.
" Stick to each other through thick and
thin ;
All the closer as age leaks in ;
Squalls will blow and clouds will frown,
But stay by your ship till you all go
down ! "
ADDED FOR THE ALUMNI MEETING,
JUNE 29, 1869.
So the gray Boatswain of 'Twenty-nine
Piped to " The Boys " as they crossed
the line ;
HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING. EVEN-SONG.
227
Round the cabin sat thirty guests,
Babes of the nurse with a thousand
breasts.
There were the judges, grave and grand,
Flanked by the priests on either hand ;
There was the lord of wealth untold,
And the dear good fellow in broadcloth
old.
Thirty men, from twenty towns,
Sires and grandsires with silvered
crowns,
Thirty school -boys all in a row,
Bens and Georges and Bill and Joe.
In thirty goblets the wine was poured,
But threescore gathered around the
board,
For lo ! at the side of every chair
A shadow hovered we all were there !
1869.
HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING.
THOU Gracious Power, whose mercy lends
The light of home, the smile of friends,
Our gathered flock thine arms infold
As in the peaceful days of old.
Wilt thou not hear us while we raise,
In sweet accord of solemn praise,
The voices that have mingled long
In joyous flow of mirth and song ?
For all the blessings life has brought,
For all its sorrowing hours have taught,
For all we mourn, for all we keep,
The hands we clasp, the loved that
The noontide sunshine of the past,
These brief, bright moments fading fast,
The stars that gild our darkening years,
The twilight ray from holier spheres ;
We thank thee, Father ! let thy grace
Our narrowing circle still embrace,
Thy mercy shed its heavenly store,
Thy peace be with us evermore !
1870.
EVEN-SONG.
IT may be, yes, it must be, Time that
brings
An end to mortal things,
Jhat sends the beggar Winter in the
train
Of Autumn's burdened wain,
Time, that is heir of all our earthly
state,
And knoweth well to wait
Till sea hath turned to shore and shore
to sea,
If so it need must be,
Ere he make good his claim and call his
own
Old empires overthrown,
Time, who can iind no heavenly orb too
large
To hold its fee in charge,
Nor any motes that fill its beam so
small,
But he shall care for all,
It may be, must be, yes, he soon
shall tire
This hand that holds the lyre.
Then ye who listened in that earlier day
When to my careless lay
I matched its chords and stole their first-
born thrill;
With untaught rudest skill
Vexing a treble from the slender strings
Thin as the locust sings
When the shrill-crying child of sum-
mer's heat
Pipes from its leafy seat,
The dim pavilion of embowering green
228
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
Beneath whose shadowy screen
The small sopranist tries his single note
Against the song-bird's throat,
And all the echoes listen, but in vain ;
They hear no answering strain,
Then ye who listened in that earlier day
Shall sadly turn away,
Saying, " The fire burns low, the hearth
is cold
That warmed our blood of old ;
Cover its embers and its half - burnt
brands,
And let us stretch our hands
Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame ;
Lo, this is not the same,
The joyous singer of our morning time,
Flushed high with lusty rhyme !
Speak kindly, for he bears a human
heart,
But whisper him apart,
Tell him the woods their autumn robes
have shed
And all their birds have fled,
And shouting winds unbuild the naked
nests
They warmed with patient breasts ;
Tell him the sky is dark, the summer
o'er,
And bid him sing no more !
Ah, welladay ! if words so cruel-kind
A listening ear might find !
But who that hears the music in his soul
Of rhythmic waves that roll
Crested with gleams of fire, and as they
flow
Stir all the deeps below
Till the great pearls no calm might ever
reach
Leap glistening on the beach,
Who that has known the passion and
the pain,
The rush through heart and brain,
The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed
Hard on his throbbing breast,
When thou, whose smile is life and bliss
and fame
Hast set his pulse aflame,
Muse of the lyre ! can say farewell to
thee?
Alas ! and must it be ?
In many a clime, in many a stately
tongue,
The mighty bards have sung ;
To these the immemorial thrones belong
And purple robes of song ;
Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender
tone
His lips may call his own,
And finds the measure of the verse more
sweet
Timed by his pulse's beat,
Than all the hymnings of the laurelled
throng.
Say not I do him wrong,
For Nature spoils her warblers, them
she feeds
In lotus-growing meads
And pours them subtle draughts from
haunted streams
That fill their souls with dreams.
Full well I know the gracious mother's
wiles
And dear delusive smiles !
No callow fledgling of her singing brood
But tastes that witching food,
And hearing overhead the eagle's wing,
And how the thrushes sing,
Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his
nest
Flaps forth, we know the rest.
I own the weakness of the tuneful
kind,
Are not all harpers blind ?
I sang too early, must I sing too late ?
The lengthening shadows wait
The first pale stars of twilight, yet
how sweet
THE SMILING LISTENER.
229
The flattering whisper's cheat,
"Thou hast the fire no evening chill
can tame,
Whose coals outlast its flame ! "
Farewell, ye carols of the laughing morn,
Of earliest sunshine born !
The sower flings the seed and looks not
back
Along his furrowed track ;
The reaper leaves the stalks for other
hands
To gird with circling bands ;
The wind, earth's careless servant, truant-
born,
Blows clean the beaten corn
And quits the thresher's floor, and goes
his way
To sport with ocean's spray ;
The headlong-stumbling rivulet scram-
bling down
To wash the sea-girt town,
Still babbling of the green and billowy
waste
Whose salt he longs to taste,
Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may
feel
Has twirled the miller's wheel.
The song has done its task that makes
us bold
With secrets else untold,
And mine has run its errand ; through
the dews
I tracked the flying Muse ;
The daughter of the morning touched my
lips
With roseate finger-tips ;
Whether I would or would not, I must
sing
With the new choirs of spring ;
Now, as I watch the fading autumn day
And trill my softened lay,
I think of all that listened, and of one
For whom a brighter sun
Dawned at high summer's noon. Ah,
comrades dear,
Are not all gathered here ?
Our hearts have answered. Yes ! they
hear our call :
All gathered here ! all ! all !
1871.
THE SMILING LISTENER.
PRECISELY. I see it. You all want to
say
That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too
gay;
You could stand a faint smile, you could
manage a sigh,
But you value your ribs, and you don't
want to cry.
And why at our feast of the clasping of
hands
Need we turn on the stream of our lach-
rymal glands ?
Though we see the white breakers of age
on our bow,
Let us take a good pull in the jolly-boat
now !
It 's hard if a fellow cannot feel content
When a banquet like this does n't cost
him a cent,
When his goblet and plate he may empty
at will,
And our kind Class Committee will settle
the bill.
And here 's your old friend the identical
bard
Who has rhymed and recited you verse
by the yard
Since the days of the empire of Andrew
the First
Till you 're full to the brim and feel ready
to burst.
230
POEMS FKOM THE CLASS OF '29.
It 's awful to think of, how year after
year
With his piece in his pocket he waits for
you here ;
No matter who 's missing, there always
is one
To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun.
"Why won't he stop writing?" Hu-
manity cries :
The answer is briefly, " He can't if he
tries ;
He has played with his foolish old feather
so long,
That the goose-quill in spite of him
cackles in song."
You have watched him with patience
from morning to dusk
Since the tassel was bright o'er the green
of the husk,
And now it 's too bad it 's a pitiful
job
He has shelled the ripe ear till he 's come
to the cob.
I see one face beaming it listens so
well
There must be some music yet left in
my shell
The wine of my soul is not thick on the
lees ;
One string is unbroken, one friend I can
please !
Dear comrade, the sunshine of seasons
gone by
Looks out from your tender and tear-
moistened eye,
A pharos of love on an ice-girdled
coast,
Kind soul ! Don't you hear me ?
He 's deaf as a post !
Can it be one of Nature's benevolent
tricks
That you grow hard of hearing as I grow
prolix ?
And that look of delight which would
angels beguile
Is the deaf man's prolonged unintelligent
smile ?
All ! the ear may grow dull, and the eye
may wax dim,
But they still know a classmate they
can't mistake him ;
There is something to tell us, " That 's
one of our band,"
Though we groped in the dark for a touch
of his hand.
Well, Time with his snuffers is prowling
about
And his shaky old fingers will soon snuff
us out ;
There 's a hint for us all in each pendu-
lum tick,
For we 're low in the tallow and long in
the wick.
You remember Eossini you 've been
at the play ?
How his overture-endings keep crashing
away
Till you think, " It 's all over it can't
but stop now
That 's the screech and the bang of the
final bow-wow."
And you find you 're mistaken ; there 's
lots more to come,
More banging, more screeching of fiddle
and drum,
Till when the last ending is finished and
done,
You feel like a horse when the winning-
post 's won.
So I, who have sung to you, merry or
OUR SWEET SINGER.
231
Since the days when they called me a
promising lad,
Though I Ve made you more rhymes
than a tutor could scan,
Have a few more still left, like the razor-
strop man.
Now pray don't be frightened I 'm
ready to stop
My galloping anapests' clatter and pop
In fact, if you say so, retire from to-day
To the garret I left, on a poet's half-pay.
And yet I can't help it perhaps
who can tell ?
You might miss the poor singer you
treated so well,
And confess you could stand him five
minutes or so,
"It was so like old times we remember,
you know."
'T is not that the music can signify
much,
But then there are chords that awake
with a touch,
And our hearts can find echoes of sorrow
and joy
To the winch of the minstrel who hails
from Savoy.
So this hand-organ tune that I cheerfully
grind
May bring the old places and faces to
mind,
And seen in the light of the past we re-
call
The flowers that have faded bloom fair-
est of all !
1872.
OUR SWEET SINGER.
*
J. A.
ONE memory trembles on our lips :
It throbs in every breast ;
In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse,
The shadow stands confessed.
silent voice, that cheered so long
Our manhood's marching day,
Without thy breath of heavenly song,
How weary seems the way !
Vain every pictured phrase to tell
Our sorrowing heart's desire ;
The shattered harp, the broken shell,
The silent unstrung lyre ;
For youth was round us while he sang ;
It glowed in every tone ;
With bridal chimes the echoes rang,
And made the past our own.
blissful dream ! Our nursery joys
We know must have an end,
But love and friendship's broken toys
May God's good angels mend !
The cheering smile, the voice of mirth
And laughter's gay surprise
That please the children born of earth,
Why deem that Heaven denies ?
Methinks in that refulgent sphere
That knows not sun or moon,
An earth-born saint might long to hear
One verse of " Bonny Doon " ;
Or walking through the streets of gold
In Heaven's unclouded light,
His lips recall the song of old
And hum " The sky is bright."
* * *
And can we smile when thou art dead ?
Ah, brothers, even so !
The rose of summer will be red,
In spite of winter's snow.
Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom
Because thy song is still,
Nor blight the banquet -garland's bloom
With grief's untimely chill.
232
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
The sighing wintry winds complain,
The singing bird has flown,
Hark ! heard I not that ringing strain,
That clear celestial tone ?
How poor these pallid phrases seem,
How weak this tinkling line,
As warbles through my waking dream
That angel voice of thine !
Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay ;
It falters on my tongue ;
For all we vainly strive to say,
Thou shouldst thyself have sung !
1873.
H.C.M. H.S. J.K.W.
THE dirge is played, the throbbing
death-peal rung ;
The sad-voiced requiem sung
On each white urn where memory
dwells
The wreath of rustling immortelles
Our loving hands have hung,
Andbalmiest leaves have strown and ten-
derest blossoms flung.
The birds that filled the air with songs
have flown,
The wintry blasts have blown,
And these for whom the voice of
spring
Bade the sweet choirs their carols
sing
Sleep in those chambers lone
Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the
night- winds moan.
We clasp them all in memory, as the
vine
"Whose running stems intwine,
The marble shaft, and steal around,
The lowly stone, the nameless
mound ;
With sorrowing hearts resign
Our brothers true and tried, and close
our broken line.
How fast the lamps of life grow dim
and die
Beneath our sunset sky !
Still fading, as along our track
We cast our saddened glances back,
And while we vainly sigh
The shadowy day recedes, the starry
night draws nigh.
As when from pier to pier across the
tide
With even keel we glide,
The lights we left along the shore
Grow less and less, while more, yet
more
New vistas open wide
Of fair illumined streets and casements
golden-eyed.
Each closing circle of our sunlit sphere
Seems to bring Heaven more near :
Can we not dream that those we love
Are listening in the world above
And smiling as they hear
The voices known so well of friends that
still are dear ?
Does all that made us human fade away
With this dissolving clay ?
Nay, rather deem the blessed isles
Are bright and gay with joyous
smiles,
That angels have their play,
And saints that tire of song may claim
their holiday.
All else of earth may perish ; love alone
Not Heaven shall find outgrown !
Are they not here, our spirit guests
With love still throbbing in their
breasts ?
WHAT I HAVE COME FOR. OUR BANKER.
233
Once more let flowers be strown.
Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count
you still our own !
1873.
WHAT I HAVE COME FOR.
I HAVE come with my verses I think
I may claim
It is not the first time I have tried on
the same.
They were puckered in rhyme, they
were wrinkled in wit ;
But your hearts were so large that they
made them, a fit.
I have come not to tease you with
more of my rhyme,
But to feel as I did in the blessed old
time ;
1 want to hear him with the Brobding-
nag laugh
We count him at least as three men and
a half.
I have come to meet judges so wise and
so grand
That I shake in my shoes while they 're
shaking my hand ;
And the prince among merchants who
put back the crown
When they tried to enthrone him the
King of the Town.
I have come to see George Yes, I
think there are four,
If they all were like these I could wish
there were more.
I have come to see one whom we used
to call "Jim,"
I want to see 0, don't I want to see
him?
I have come to grow young on my
word I declare
I have thought I detected a change in
my hair !
One hour with "The Boys" will restore
it to brown
And a wrinkle or two I expect to rub
down.
Yes, that 's what I 've come for, as all
of us come ;
When I meet the dear Boys I could wish
I were dumb.
You asked me, you know, but it 's
spoiling the fun ;
I have told what I came for ; my ditty
is done.
1874.
OUR BANKER.
OLD Time, in whose bank we deposit
our notes,
Is a miser who always wants guineas for
groats ;
He keeps all his customers still in arrears
By lending them minutes and charging
them years.
The twelvemonth rolls round and we
never forget
On the counter before us to pay him our
debt.
We reckon the marks he has chalked on
the door,
Pay up and shake hands and begin a
new score.
How long he will lend us, how much we
may owe,
No angel will tell us, no mortal may
know.
At fivescore, at fourscore, at threescore
and ten,
He may close the account with a stroke
of his pen.
234
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
This only we know, amid sorrows and
joys
Old Time has been easy and kind with
Though he must have and will have
and does have his pay,
"We have found him good-natured
enough in his way.
He never forgets us, as others will
do,
I am sure he knows me, and I think he
knows you,
For I see on your foreheads a mark that
he lends
As a sign he remembers to visit his
friends.
In the shape of a classmate (a wig on
his crown,
His day-book and ledger laid carefully
down)
He has welcomed us yearly, a glass in
his hand,
And pledged the good health of our
brotherly band.
He 's a thief, we must own, but how
many there be
That rob us less gently and fairly than
he:
He has stripped the green leaves that
were over us all,
But they let in the sunshine as fast as
they fall.
Young beauties may ravish the world
with a glance
As they languish in song, as they float
in the dance,
They are grandmothers now we remem-
ber as girls,
And the comely white cap takes the
place of the curls.
But the sighing and moaning and groan-
ing are o'er,
We are pining and moping and sleepless
no more,
And the hearts that were thumping like
ships on the rocks
Beat as quiet and steady as meeting-
house clocks.
The trump of ambition, loud sounding
and shrill,
May blow its long blast, but the echoes
are still,
The spring-tides are past, but no billow
may reach
The spoils they have landed far up on
the beach.
We see that Time robs us, we know
that he cheats,
But we still find a charm in his pleas-
ant deceits,
While he leaves the remembrance of all
that was best,
Love, friendship, and hope, and the
promise of rest.
Sweet shadows of twilight ! how calm
their repose,
While the dewdrops fall soft in the
breast of the rose !
How blest to the toiler his hour of re-
lease
When the vesper is heard with its whis-
per of peace !
Then here 's to the wrinkled old miser,
our friend ;
May he send us his bills to the century's
end,
And lend us the moments no sorrow
alloys,
Till he squares his account with the last
of "The Boys."
FOR CLASS MEETING.
235
1875.
FOR CLASS MEETING.
IT is a pit} T and a shame alas ! alas !
I know it is,
To tread the trodden grapes again, but
so it has been, so it is ;
The purple vintage long is past, with
ripened clusters bursting so
They filled the wine-vats to the brim
't is strange you will be thirsting so !
Too well our faithful memory tells what
might be rhymed or sung about,
For all have sighed and some have wept
since last year's snows were flung
about ;
The beacon flame that fired the sky, the
modest ray that gladdened us,
A little breath has quenched their light,
and deepening shades have saddened
No more our brother's life is ours for
cheering or for grieving us,
One only sadness they bequeathed, the
sorrow of their leaving us ;
Farewell ! Farewell ! I turn the leaf
I read my chiming measure in ;
Who knows but something still is there
a friend may find a pleasure in ?
For who can tell by what he likes what
other people's fancies are ?
How all men think the best of wives
their own particular Nancies are ?
If AY hat I sing you brings a smile, you
will not stop to catechise,
Nor read Boeotia's lumbering line with
nicely scanning Attic eyes.
Perhaps the alabaster box that Mary
broke so lovingly,
While Judas looked so sternly on, the
Master so approvingly,
Was not so fairly wrought as those that
Pilate's wife and daughters had,
Or many a dame of Judah's line that
drank of Jordan's waters had.
Perhaps the balm that cost so dear, as
some remarked officially,
The precious nard that filled the room
with fragrance so deliciously,
So oft recalled in storied page and sung
in verse melodious,
The dancing girl had thought too cheap
that daughter of Herodias.
Where now are all the mighty deeds
that Herod boasted loudest of?
Where now the flashing jewelry the
tetrarch's wife was proudest of?
Yet still to hear how Mary loved, all
tribes of men are listening,
And still the sinful woman's tears like
stars in heaven are glistening.
'T is not the gift our hands have brought,
the love it is we bring with it,
The minstrel's lips may shape the song,
his heart in tune must sing with it ;
And so we love the simple lays, and
wish we might have more of them
Our poet brothers sing for us there
must be half a score of them.
It may be that of fame and name our
voices once were emulous,
Witli deeper thoughts, with tenderer
throbs their softening tones are
tremulous ;
The dead seem listening as of old, ere
friendship was bereft of them ;
The living wear a kinder smile, the rem-
nant that is left of them.
Though on the once unfurrowed brows
the harrow-teeth of Time may show,
Though all the strain of crippling years
the halting feet of rhyme may show,
236
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
We look and hear with melting hearts,
for what we all remember is
The morn of Spring, nor heed how chill
the sky of gray November is.
Thanks to the gracious powers above
from all mankind that singled us,
And dropped the pearl of friendship in
the cup they kindly mingled us,
And bound us in a wreath of flowers
with hoops of steel knit under it ;
Nor time, nor space, nor chance, nor
change, nor death himself shall
sunder it !
1876.
"AD AMICOS."
"Dumque virent genua
Et decet, obducta solvatur fronte senectus. "
THE muse of boyhood's fervid hour
Grows tame as skies get chill and hazy;
Where once she sought a passion-flower,
She only hopes to find a daisy.
Well, who the changing world bewails ?
Who asks to have it stay unaltered ?
Shall grown-up kittens chase their tails ?
Shall colts be never shod or haltered ?
Are we " the boys " that used to make
The tables ring with noisy follies ?
Whose deep-lunged laughter oft would
shake
The ceiling with its thunder- volleys ?
Are we the youths with lips unshorn,
At beauty's feet unwrinkled suitors,
Whose memories reach tradition's
morn
The days of prehistoric tutors ?
"The boys" we knew but who are
these
Whose heads might serve for Plu-
tarch's sages,
Or Fox's martyrs, if you please,
Or hermits of the dismal ages ?
" The boys " we knew can these be
those ?
Their cheeks with morning's blush
were painted;
Where are the Harrys, Jims, and Joes
With whom we once were well
acquainted ?
If we are they, we 're not the same ;
If they are we, why then they 're
masking ;
Do tell us, neighbor What 's-your-name,
Who are you? What's the use of
asking ?
You once were George, or Bill, or Ben ;
There 's you, yourself there 's you,
that other
I know you now I knew you then
You used to be your younger brother !
You both are all our own to-day
But ah ! I hear a warning whisper ;
Yon roseate hour that flits away
Repeats the Roman's sad paulisper.
Come back ! come back ! we 've need of
you
To pay you for your word of warning ;
We '11 bathe your wings in brighter dew
Than ever wet the lids of morning !
Behold this cup ; its mystic wine
No alien's lip has ever tasted ;
The blood of friendship's clinging
vine, j
Still flowing, flowing, yet unwasted ;
Old Time forgot his running sand
And laid his hour-glass down to fill it,
And Death himself with gentle hand
Has touched the chalice, not to spill
it.
Each bubble rounding at the brim
Is rainbowed with its magic story ;
HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT.
237
The shining days with age grown dim
Are dressed again in robes of glory ;
In all its freshness spring returns
With song of birds and blossoms
tender :
Once more the torch of passion burns,
And youth is here in all its splen-
dor!
Hope swings her anchor like a toy,
Love laughs and shows the silver arrow
We knew so well as man and boy,
The shaft that stings through bone
and marrow;
Again our kindling pulses beat,
With tangled curls our fingers dally,
And bygone beauties smile as sweet
As fresh-blown lilies of the valley.
blessed hour ! we may forget
Its wreaths, its rhymes, its songs, its
laughter,
But not the loving eyes we met,
Whose light shall gild the dim here-
after.
How every heart to each grows warm !
Is one in sunshine's ray ? We share
it.
Is one in sorrow's blinding storm ?
A look, a word, shall help him bear it.
" The boys " we were, " the boys " we '11
be
As long as three, as two, are creep-
ing ;
Then here 's to him ah ! which is
he?
Who lives till all the rest are sleep-
ing;
A life with tranquil comfort blest,
The young man's health, the rich
man's plenty,
All earth can give that earth has best.
And heaven at fourscore years and
twenty.
1877.
HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT.
I LIKE, at times, to hear the steeples'
chimes
With sober thoughts impressively
that mingle ;
But sometimes, too, I rather like
don't you ?
To hear the music of the sleigh bells'
jingle.
I like full well the deep resounding
swell
Of mighty symphonies with chords
inwoven ;
But sometimes, too, a song of Burns
don't you ?
After a solemn storm-blast of Beetho-
ven.
Good to the heels the well-worn slipper
feels
When the tired player shuffles off the
buskin ;
A page of Hood may do a fellow good
After a scolding from Carlyle or Bus-
kin.
Some works I find, say Watts upon
the Mind,
No matter though at first they seemed
amusing,
Not quite the same, but just a little tame
After some five or six times' reperus-
ing.
So, too, at times when melancholy
rhymes
Or solemn speeches sober down a din-
ner,
I 've seen it, 's true, quite often,
have n't you ?
The best-fed guests perceptibly grow
thinner.
238
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
Better some jest (in proper terms ex-
pressed)
Or story (strictly moral) even if musty,
Or song we sung when these old throats
were young,
Something to keep our souls from
getting rusty.
The poorest scrap from memory's ragged
lap
Comes like an heirloom from a dear
dead mother
Hush ! there 's a tear that has no busi-
ness here,
A half-formed sigh that ere its birth
we smother.
We cry, we laugh ; ah, life is half and
half,
Now bright and joyous as a song of
Herrick's,
Then chill and bare as funeral-minded
Blair ;
As fickle as a female in hysterics.
If I could make you cry I would n't try ;
If you have hidden smiles I 'd like to
find them,
And that although, as well I ought to
know,
The lips of laughter have a skull be-
hind them.
Yet when I think we may be on the
brink
Of having Freedom's banner to dis-
pose of,
All crimson-hued, because the Nation
would
Insist on cutting its own precious
nose off,
I feel indeed as if we rather need
A sermon such as preachers tie a text
If Freedom dies because a ballot lies,
She earns her grave ; 't is time to call
the sexton !
But if a fight can make the matter right,
Here are we, classmates, thirty men
of mettle ;
We 're strong and tough, we 've lived
nigh long enough
What if the Nation gaye it us to
settle ?
The tale would read like that illustrious
deed
When Curtius took the leap the gap
that filled in,
Thus; "Fivescore years, good friends,
as it appears,
At last this people split on Hayes and
Tilden.
" One half cried, 'See! the choice is
S. J. T. ! '
And one half swore as stoutly it was
t' other ;
Both drew the knife to save the Na-
tion's life
By wholesale vivisection of each other.
" Then rose in mass that monumental
Class,
* Hold ! hold ! ' they cried, ' give us,
give us the daggers ! '
* Content ! content ! ' exclaimed with
one consent
The gaunt ex-rebels and the carpet-
" Fifteen each side, the combatants
divide,
So nicely balanced are their predilec-
tions ;
And first of all a tear-drop each lets fall,
A tribute to their obsolete affections.
HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT.
239
"Man facing man, the sanguine strife
began,
Jack, Jim and Joe against Tom, Dick
and Harry,
Each several pair its own account to
square,
Till both were down or one stood soli-
tary.
" And the great fight raged furious all
the night
Till every integer was made a fraction ;
Reader, wouldst know what history has
to show
As net result of the above transaction ?
" Whole coat-tails, four ; stray frag-
ments, several score ;
A heap of spectacles ; a deaf man's
trumpet :
Six lawyers' briefs ; seven pocket-hand-
kerchiefs ;
Twelve canes wherewith the owners
used to stump it ;
" Odd rubber-shoes ; old gloves of dif-
ferent hues ;
Tax-bills, unpaid, and several
empty purses ;
And, saved from harm by some pjotect-
ing charm,
A printed page with Smith's immortal
verses ;
"Trifles that claim no very special
name,
Some useful, others chiefly ornament-
al;
Pins, buttons, rings, and other trivial
things,
With various wrecks, capillary and
dental.
"Also, one flag, 't was nothing but a
And what device it bore it little mat-
ters ;
Red, white, and blue, but rent all
through and through,
* Union forever ' torn to shreds and
tatters.
" They fought so well not one was left
to tell
Which got the largest share of cuts
and slashes ;
When heroes meet, both sides are bound
to beat ;
They telescoped like cars in railroad
smashes.
" So the great split that baffled human
wit
And might have cost the lives of
twenty millions,
As all may see that know the rule of
three,
Was settled just as well by these
civilians.
"As well. Just so. Not worse, not
better. No,
NT ext morning found the Nation still
divided ;
Since all were slain, the inference is
plain
They left the point they fought for
undecided. "
If not quite true, as I have told it you,
This tale of mutual extermination,
To minds perplexed with threats of
what comes next,
Perhaps may furnish food for contem-
plation.
To cut men's throats to help them count
their votes
Is asinine nay, worse ascidian
folly ;
240
POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29.
Blindness like that would scare the
mole and bat,
And make the liveliest monkey mel-
ancholy.
I say once more, as I have said be-
fore,
If voting for our Tildens and our
Hayeses
Means only fight, then, Liberty, good
night !
Pack up your ballot-box and go to
blazes !
Unfurl your blood-red flags, you mur-
derous hags,
You petroleuses of Paris, fierce and
foamy ;
We '11 sell our stock in Plymouth's
blasted rock,
Pull up our stakes and migrate to
Dahomey !
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
1862 - 1874.
OPENING THE WINDOW.
THUS I lift the sash, so long
Shut against the flight of song ;
All too late for vain excuse,
Lo, my captive rhymes are loose !
Rhymes that, flitting through my brain,
Beat against my window-pane,
Some with gayly colored wings,
Some, alas ! with venomed stings.
Shall they bask in sunny rays?
Shall they feed on sugared praise ?
Shall they stick with tangled feet
On the critic's poisoned sheet ?
Are the outside winds too rough ?
Is the world not wide enough?
Go, my winged verse, and try,
Go, like Uncle Toby's fly 1
PROGRAMME.
READER gentle if so be
Such still live, and live for me,
Will it please you to be told
What my tenscore pages hold ?
Here are verses that in spite
Of myself I needs must write,
Like the wine that oozes first
When the unsqueezed grapes have burst.
Here are angry lines, " too hard ! "
Says the soldier, battle-scarred.
Could I smile his scars away
I would blot the bitter lay,
Written with a knitted brow,
Read with placid wonder now.
Throbbed such passion in my heart?
Did his wounds once really smart ?
Here are varied strains that sing
All the changes life, can bring,
Songs when joyous friends have met,
Songs the mourner's tears have wet.
See the banquet's dead bouquet,
Fair and fragrant in its day ;
Do they read the selfsame lines,
He that fasts and he that dines ?
Year by year, like milestones placed,
Mark the record Friendship traced.
Prisoned in the walls of time
Life has notched itself in rhyme :
As its seasons slid along,
Every year a notch of song,
From the June of long ago,
When the rose was full in blow,
Till the scarlet sage has come
And the cold chrysanthemum.
Read, but not to praise or blame ;
Are not all our hearts the same ?
242
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
For the rest, they take their chance,
Some may pay a passing glance ;
Others, well, they served a turn,
Wherefore written, would you learn?
Not for glory, not for pelf,
Not, be sure, to please myself,
Not for any meaner ends,
Always " by request of friends."
Here 's the cousin of a king,
Would I do the civil thing ?
Here 's the first-born of a queen ;
Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin.
Would I polish off Japan ?
Would I greet this famous man,
Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah ?
Figaro 91 and Figaro la !
Would I just this once comply ?
So they teased and teased till I
(Be the truth at once confessed)
Wavered yielded did my best.
Turn my pages, never mind
If you like not all you find ;
Think not all the grains are gold
Sacramento's sand-banks hold.
Every kernel has its shell,
Every chime its harshest bell,
Every face its weariest look,
Every shelf its emptiest book,
Every field its leanest sheaf,
Every book its dullest leaf,
Every leaf its weakest line,
Shall it not be so with mine ?
Best for worst shall make amends,
Find us, keep us, leave us friends
Till, perchance, we meet again.
Benedicite. Amen !
October 7, 1874.
IN THE QUIET DAYS.
243
IN THE QUIET DAYS.
AN OLD-YEAR SONG.
As through the forest, disarrayed
By chill November, late I strayed,
A lonely minstrel of the wood
Was singing to the solitude :
I loved thy music, thus I said,
When o'er thy perch the leaves were
Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now
Thy carol on the leafless bough.
Sing, little bird ! thy note shall cheer
The sadness of the dying year.
When violets pranked the turf with blue
And morning filled their cups with dew,
Thy slender voice with rippling trill
The budding April bowers would fill,
Nor passed its joyous tones away
When April rounded into May :
Thy life shall hail no second dawn,
Sing, little bird ! the spring is gone.
And I remember well-a-day !
Thy full-blown summer roundelay,
As when behind a broidered screen
Some holy maiden sings unseen :
With answering notes the woodland
rung,
And every tree-top found a tongue.
How deep the shade ! the groves how
fair !
Sing, little bird ! the woods are bare
The summer's throbbing chant is done
And mute the choral antiphon ;
The birds have left the shivering pines
'o flit among the trellised vines,
)r fan the air with scented plumes
jnid the love-sick orange-blooms,
And thou art here alone, alone,
Sing, little bird ! the rest have flown.
?he snow has capped yon distant hill,
At morn the running brook was still,
?rom driven herds the clouds that rise
Are like the smoke of sacrifice ;
,relong the frozen sod shall mock
The ploughshare, changed to stubborn
rock,
The brawling streams shall soon be
dumb,
Sing, little bird ! the frosts have come.
Fast, fast the lengthening shadows
creep,
The songless fowls are half asleep,
The air grows chill, the setting sun
May leave thee ere thy song is done,
The pulse that warms thy breast grow
cold,
Thy secret die with thee, untold :
The lingering sunset still is bright,
Sing, little bird ! 't will soon be night.
1874.
DOROTHY Q.
A FAMILY PORTE A IT.
GRANDMOTHER'S mother : her age, I
guess,
Thirteen summers, or something less ;
244
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Girlish bust, but womanly air ;
Smooth, square forehead with uprolled
hair,
Lips that lover has never kissed ;
Taper fingers and slender wrist ;
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade ;
So they painted the little maid.
On her hand a parrot green
Sits unmoving and broods serene.
Hold up the canvas full in view,
Look ! there 's a rent the light shines
through,
Dark with a century's fringe of dust,
That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust !
Such is the tale the lady old,
Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told.
Who the painter was none may tell,
One whose best was not over well ;
Hard and dry, it must be confessed,
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed ;
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright,
Dainty colors of red and white,
And in her slender shape are seen
Hint and promise of stately mien.
Look not on her with eyes of scorn,
Dorothy Q. was a lady born !
Ay ! since the galloping Normans came,
England's annals have known her name ;
And still to the three-hilled rebel town
Dear is that ancient name's renown,
For many a civic wreath they won,
The youthful sire and the gray-haired
Damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. !
Strange is the gift that I owe to you ;
Such a gift as never a king
Save to daughter or son might bring,
All my tenure of heart and hand,
All my title to house and land ;
Mother and sister and child and wife
And joy and sorrow and death and life I
What if a hundred years ago
Those close-shut lips had answered No,
When forth the tremulous question came
That cost the maiden her Norman name,
And under the folds that look so still
The bodice swelled with the bosom's
thrill ?
Should I be I, or would it be
One tenth another, to nine tenths me ?
Soft is the breath of a maiden's YES :
Not the light gossamer stirs with less ;
But never a cable that holds so fast
Through all the battles of wave and
blast,
And never an echo of speech or song
That lives in the babbling air so long !
There were tones in the voice that wins-
pered then
You may hear to-day in a hundred men.
lady and lover, how faint and far
Your images hover, and here we are,
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,
Edward's and Dorothy's all their
own,
A goodly record for Time to show
Of a syllable spoken so long ago !
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive
For the tender whisper that bade me
live?
It shall be a blessing, my little maid !
1 will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's
blade,
And freshen the gold of the tarnished
frame,
And gild with a rhyme your household
name ;
So you shall smile on us brave and bright
As first you greeted the morning's light,
And live untroubled by woes and fears
Through a second youth of a hundred
years.
1871.
IN THE QUIET DAYS.
245
THE ORGAN-BLOWER.
DEVOUTEST of my Sunday friends,
The patient Organ-blower bends ;
I see his figure sink and rise,
(Forgive me, Heaven, my wandering
eyes !)
A moment lost, the next half seen,
His head above the scanty screen,
Still measuring out his deep salaams
Through quavering hymns and panting
psalms.
No priest that prays in gilded stole,
To save a rich man's mortgaged soul ;
No sister, fresh from holy vows,
So humbly stoops, so meekly bows ;
His large obeisance puts to shame
The proudest genuflecting dame,
Whose Easter bonnet low descends
With all the grace devotion lends.
brother with the supple spine,
How much we owe those bows of thine !
Without thine arm to lend the breeze,
How vain the finger on the keys !
Though all unmatched the player's skill,
Those thousand throats were dumb and
still :
Another's art may shape the tone,
The breath that fills it is thine own.
Six days the silent Memnon waits
Behind his temple's folded gates ;
But when the seventh day's sunshine
falls
Through rainbowed windows on the
walls,
He breathes, he sings, he shouts, he fills
The quivering air with rapturous thrills ;
The roof resounds, the pillars shake,
And all the slumbering echoes wake !
The Preacher from the Bible-text
With weary words my soul has vexed
(Some stranger, fumbling far astray
To find the lesson for the day) ;
He tells us truths too plainly true,
And reads the service all askew,
Why, why the mischief can't he
look
Beforehand in the service-book ?
But thou, with decent mien and face,
Art always ready in thy place ;
Thy strenuous blast, whate'er the tune,
As steady as the strong monsoon ;
Thy only dread a leathery creak,
Or small residual extra squeak,
To send along the shadowy aisles
A sunlit wave of dimpled smiles.
Not all the preaching, my friend',
Comes from the church's pulpit end !
Not all that bend the knee and bow
Yield service half so true as thou !
One simple task performed aright,
With slender skill, but all thy might,
Where honest labor does its best,
And leaves the player all the rest.
This many-diapasoned maze,
Through which the breath of being
strays,
Whose music makes our earth divine,
Has work for mortal hands like mine.
My duty lies before me. Lo,
The lever there ! Take hold and blow !
And He whose hand is on the keys
Will play the tune as He shall please.
1872.
AT THE PANTOMIME.
THE house was crammed from roof to
floor,
Heads piled on heads at every door ;
Half dead with August's seething heat
I crowded on and found my seat,
My patience slightly out of joint,
My temper short of boiling-point,
Not quite at Hate mankind as such,
Nor yet at Love them overmuch.
246
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Amidst the throng the pageant drew
Were gathered Hebrews not a few,
Black-bearded, swarthy, at their side
Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed :
If scarce a Christian hopes for grace
Who crowds one in his narrow place
What will the savage victim do
Whose ribs are kneaded by a Jew ?
Next on my left a breathing form
Wedged up against me, close and warm ;
The beak that crowned the bistred face
Betrayed the mould of Abraham's race,
That coal-black hair, that smoke-brown
hue,
Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew !
I started, shuddering, to the right,
And squeezed a second Israelite !
Then woke the evil brood of rage
That slumber, tongueless, in their cage ;
I stabbed in turn with silent oaths
The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes,
The snaky usurer, him that crawls
And cheats beneath the golden balls,
Moses and Levi, all the horde,
Spawn of the race that slew its Lord.
Up came their murderous deeds of old,
The grisly story Chaucer told,
And many an ugly tale beside
Of children caught and crucified ;
I heard the ducat-sweating thieves
Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves,
And, thrust beyond the tented green,
The lepers cry, " Unclean ! Unclean ! "
The show went on, but, ill at ease,
My sullen eye it could not please,
In vain my conscience whispered,
"Shame!
Who but their Maker is to blame ? "
I thought of Judas and his bribe,
And steeled my soul against their tribe :
My neighbors stirred ; I looked again
Full on the younger of the twain.
A fresh young cheek whose olive hue
The mantling blood shows faintly
through ;
Locks dark as midnight, that divide
And shade the neck on either side ;
Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam
Clear as a starlit mountain stream ;
So looked that other child of Shem,
The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem !
And thou couldst scorn the peerless
blood
That flows unmingled from the Flood,
Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains
Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes !
The New World's foundling, in thy pride
Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side,
And lo ! the very semblance there
The Lord of Glory deigned to wear !
I see that radiant image rise,
The flowing hair, the pitying e} r es,
The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows
The blush of Sharon's opening rose,
Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet
Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat,
Thy lips would press his garment's hem
That curl in wrathful scorn for them !
A sudden mist, a watery screen,
Dropped like a veil before the scene ;
The shadow floated from my soul,
And to my lips a whisper stole,
" Thy prophets caught the Spirit's flame,
From thee the Son of Mary came,
Withthee the Father deigned to dwell,
Peace be upon thee, Israel ! "
18 . Rewritten 1874.
AFTER THE FIRE.
WHILE far along the eastern sky
I saw the flags of Havoc fly,
As if his forces would assault
The sovereign of the starry vault
IN THE QUIET DAYS.
247
And hurl Him back the burning rain
That seared the cities of the plain,
I read as on a crimson page
The words of Israel's sceptred sage :
For riches make them wings, and they
Do as an eagle fly away.
vision of that sleepless night,
What hue shall paint the mocking light
That burned and stained the orient skies
Where peaceful morning loves to rise,
As if the sun had lost his way
And dawned to make a second day,
Above how red with fiery glow,
How dark to those it woke below !
On roof and wall, on dome and spire,
Flashed the false jewels of the fire ;
Girt with her belt of glittering panes,
And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes,
Our northern queen in glory shone
With new-born splendors not her own,
And stood, transfigured in our eyes,
A victim decked for sacrifice !
The cloud still hovers overhead,
And still the midnight sky is red ;
As the lost wanderer strays alone
To seek the place he called his own,
His devious footprints sadly tell
How changed the pathways known so
well ;
The scene, how new ! The tale, how old
Ere yet the ashes have grown cold !
Again I read the words that came
Writ in the rubric of the flame :
Howe'er we trust to mortal things,
Each hath its pair of folded wings ;
Though long their terrors rest unspread
Their fatal plumes are never shed ;
At last, at last, they stretch in flight,
And blot the day and blast the night !
Hope, only Hope, of all that clings
Around us, never spreads her wings ;
Love, though he break his earthly chain,
Still whispers he will come again ;
But Faith that soars to seek the sky
Shall teach our half -fledged souls to fly,
And find, beyond the smoke and flame,
The cloudless azure whence they came !
1872.
A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-
PARTY.
No ! never such a draught was poured
Since Hebe served with nectar
The bright Olympians and their Lord,
Her over-kind protector,
Since Father Noah squeezed the grape
And took to such behaving
As would have shamed our grandsire ape
Before the days of shaving,
No ! ne'er was mingled such a draught
In palace, hall, or arbor,
As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed
That night in Boston Harbor !
It kept King George so long awake
His brain at last got addled,
It made the nerves of Britain shake,
With sevenscore millions saddled ;
Before that bitter cup was drained,
Amid the roar of cannon,
The Western war-cloud's crimson stained
The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon ;
Full many a six-foot grenadier
The flattened grass had measured,
And many a mother many a year
Her tearful memories treasured ;
Fast spread the tempest's darkening pall,
The mighty realms were troubled,
The storm broke loose, but first of all
The Boston teapot bubbled !
An evening party, only that,
No formal invitation,
No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,
No feast in contemplation,
248
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,
No flowers, no songs, no dancing,
A tribe of Red men, axe in hand,
Behold the guests advancing !
How fast the stragglers join the throng,
From stall and workshop gathered !
The lively barber skips along
And leaves a chin half-lathered ;
The smith has flung his hammer down,
The horseshoe still is glowing ;
The truant tapster at the Crown
Has left a beer-cask flowing ;
The cooper's boys have dropped the adze,
And trot behind their master ;
Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,
The crowd is hurrying faster,
Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush
The streams of white-faced millers,
And down their slippery alleys rush
The lusty young Fort- Killers ;
The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,
The tories seize the omen :
" Ay, boys, you '11 soon have work to do
For England's rebel foemen,
'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang,
That fire the mob with treason,
When these we shoot and those we
hang
The town will come to reason."
On on to where the tea-ships ride !
And now their ranks are forming,
A rush, and up the Dartmouth's side
The Mohawk band is swarming !
See the fierce natives ! What a glimpse
Of paint and fur and feather,
As all at once the full-grown imps
Light on the deck together !
A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps,
A blanket hides the breeches,
And out the cursed cargo leaps,
And overboard it pitches !
woman, at the evening board
So gracious, sweet, and purring,
So happy while the tea is poured,
So blest while spoons are stirring,
What martyr can compare with thcc,
The mother, wife, or daughter,
That night, instead of best Bohea,
Condemned to milk and water !
Ah, little dreams the quiet dame
Who plies with rock and spindle
The patient flax, how great a flame
Yon little spark shall kindle !
The lurid morning shall reveal
A fire no king can smother
Where British flint and Boston steel
Have clashed against each other !
Old charters shrivel in its track,
His Worship's bench has crumbled,
It climbs and clasps the union-jack,
Its blazoned pomp is humbled,
The flags go down on land and sea
Like corn before the reapers ;
So burned the fire that brewed the tea
That Boston served her keepers !
The waves that wrought a century's
wreck
Have rolled o'er whig and tory ;
The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deck
Still live in song and story ;
The waters in the rebel bay
Have kept the tea-leaf savor ;
Our old North-Enders in their spray
Still taste a Hyson flavor ;
And Freedom's teacup still o'erflows
With ever fresh libations,
To cheat of slumber all her foes
And cheer the wakening nations !
1874.
NEARING THE SNOW LINE.
SLOW toiling upward from the misty
vale,
I leave the bright enamelled zones
below ;
IN THE QUIET DAYS.
249
No more for me their beauteous bloom
shall glow,
Their lingering sweetness load the morn-
ing gale ;
Few are the slender flowerets, scentless,
pale,
That on their ice-clad stems all trem-
bling blow
Along the margin of unmeltiug
snow ;
Yet with un saddened voice thy verge I
hail,
"White realm of peace above the flower-
ing line ;
Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky
spires !
O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt
planets shine,
On thy majestic altars fade the fires
That tilled the air with smoke of vain
desires,
And all the unclouded blue of heaven
is thine !
1870.
250
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
IN WAR TIME.
TO CANAAN.
A PURITAN WAR-SONG.
WHERE are you going, soldiers,
With banner, gun, and sword ?
We 're marching South to Canaan
To battle for the Lord !
What Captain leads your armies
Along the rebel coasts ?
The Mighty One of Israel,
His name is Lord of Hosts !
To Canaan, to Canaan
The Lord has led us forth,
To blow before the heathen walls
The trumpets of the North !
What flag is this you carry
Along the sea and shore ?
The same our grandsires lifted up,
The same our fathers bore !
In many a battle's tempest
It shed the crimson rain,
What God has woven in his loom
Let no man rend in twain !
To Canaan, to Canaan
The Lord has led us forth,
To plant upon the rebel towers
The banners of the North !
What troop is this that follows,
All armed with picks and spades ?*
These are the swarthy bondsmen,
The iron -skin brigades !
l The captured slaves were at this time or-
ganized as pioneers.
They '11 pile up Freedom's breastwork,
They '11 scoop out rebels' graves ;
Who then will be their owner
And march them off for slaves ?
To Canaan, to Canaan
The Lord has led us forth,
To strike upon the captive's chain
The hammers of the North !
What song is this you 're singing ?
The same that Israel sung
When Moses led the mighty choir,
And Miriam's timbrel rung !
To Canaan ! To Canaan !
The priests and maidens cried :
To Canaan ! To Canaan !
The people's voice replied.
To Canaan, to Canaan
The Lord has led us forth,
To thunder through its adder dens
The anthems of the North !
When Canaan's hosts are scattered,
And all her walls lie flat,
What follows next in order ?
The Lord will see to that !
We '11 break the tyrant's sceptre,
We '11 build the people's throne,
When half the world is Freedom's,
Then all the world's our own !
To Canaan, to Canaan
The Lord has led us forth,
To sweep the rebel threshing-floors,
A whirlwind from the North !
August 12, 1802.
IN WAR TIME.
251
THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER
THEE THREE THINGS."
N poisonous dens, where traitors hide
Like bats that fear the day,
Vhile all the land our charters claim
s sweating blood and breathing flame,
)ead to their country's woe and shame,
The recreants whisper STAY !
n peaceful homes, where patriot fires
On Love's own altars glow,
'he mother hides her trembling fear,
'he wife, the sister, checks a tear,
'o breathe the parting word of cheer,
Soldier of Freedom, Go !
n halls where Luxury lies at ease,
And Mammon keeps his state,
Vhere flatterers fawn and menials
crouch,
"he dreamer, startled from his couch,
Vrings a few counters from his pouch,
And murmurs faintly WAIT !
n weary camps, on trampled plains
That ring with fife and drum,
?he battling host, whose harness gleams
Uong the crimson-flowing streams,
?alls, like a warning voice in dreams,
We want you, Brother ! COME !
Choose ye whose bidding ye will do,
To go, to wait, to stay !
Jons of the Freedom-loving town,
leirs of the Fathers' old renown,
[*he servile yoke, the civic crown,
Await your choice TO-DAY !
rhe stake is laid ! gallant youth
With yet unsilvered brow,
if Heaven should lose and Hell should
win,
)n whom shall lie the mortal sin,
Chat cries aloud, It might have been ?
God calls you answer NOW.
1862,
NEVER OR NOW.
AN APPEAL.
LISTEN, young heroes ! your country is
calling !
Time strikes the hour for the brave
and the true !
Now, while the foremost are fighting and
falling,
Fill up the ranks that have opened for
you !
You whom the fathers made free and de-
fended,
Stain not the scroll that emblazons
their fame !
You whose fair heritage spotless de-
scended,
Leave not your children a birthright
of shame !
Stay not for questions while Freedom
stands gasping !
Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in
his pall !
Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the
hands' clasping,
" Off for the wars ! " is enough for
them all !
Break from the arms that would fondly
caress you !
Hark ! 't is the bugle-blast, sabres are
drawn !
Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall
bless you,
Maidens shall weep for you when you
are gone !
Never or now ! cries the blood of a na-
tion,
Poured on the turf where the red rose
should bloom ;
Now is the day and the hour of salva-
tion,
252
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Never or now ! peals the trumpet of
doom !
Never or now ! roars the hoarse- throated
cannon
Through the black canopy blotting
the skies ;
Never or now ! flaps the shell-blasted
pennon
O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland
lies!
From the foul dens where our brothers
are dying,
Aliens and foes in the land of their
birth,
From the rank swamps where our mar-
tyrs are lying
Pleading in vain for a handful of
earth,
From the hot plains where they perish
outnumbered,
FuiTowed and ridged by the battle-
field's plough,
Comes the loud summons ; too long you
have slumbered,
Hear the last Angel-tramp, Never
or Now !
1862.
ONE COUNTRY.
ONE country ! Treason's writhing asp
Struck madly at her girdle's clasp,
And Hatred wrenched with might and
main
To rend its welded links in twain,
"While Mammon hugged his golden calf
Content to take one broken half,
"While thankless churls stood idly by
And heard unmoved a nation's cry !
One country! "Nay," the tyrant
crew
Shrieked from their dens, "it shall
be two !
Ill bodes to us this monstrous birth,
That scowls on all the thrones of earth,
Too broad yon starry cluster shines,
Too proudly tower the New- World
pines,
Tear down the ' banner of the free,'
And cleave their land from sea to sea ! "
One country still, though foe and
"friend"
Our seamless empire strove to rend ;
Safe ! safe ! though all the fiends of hell
Join the red murderers' battle-yell !
What though the lifted sabres gleam,
The cannons frown by shore and stream,
The sabres clash, the cannons thrill,
In wild accord, One country still !
One country ! in her stress and strain
We heard the breaking of a chain !
Look where the conquering Nation
swings
Her iron flail, its shivered rings !
Forged by the rebels' crimson hand,
That bolt of wrath shall scourge the
land
Till Peace proclaims on sea and shore
One Country now and evermore !
1865.
GOD SAVE THE FLAG!
WASHED in the blood of the brave and
the blooming,
Snatched from the altars of insolent
foes,
Burning with star-fires, but never con-,
suming,
Flash its broad ribbons of lily and
rose.
Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend
it,
Vainly his worshippers pray for its
fall;
IN WAR TIME.
253
Thousands have died for it, millions de
fend it,
Emblem of justice and mercy to all :
Justice that reddens the sky with her
terrors,
Mercy that comes with her white-
handed train,
Soothing all passions, redeeming all er-
rors,
Sheathing the sabre and breaking the
chain.
Borne on the deluge of old usurpa-
tions,
Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate
seas,
Bearing the rainbow of hope to the na-
tions,
Torn from the storm-cloud and flung
to the breeze !
God bless the Flag and its loyal de-
fenders,
While its broad folds o'er the battle-
field wave,
Till the dim star-wreath rekindle its
splendors,
Washed from its stains in the blood
of the brave !
HYMN
AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLA-
MATION.
GIVER of all that crowns our days,
With grateful hearts we sing thy praise ;
Through deep and desert led by thee,
Our promised land at last we see.
The sons of Belial curse in vain
The day that rends the captive's chain.
Thou God of vengeance ! Israel's Lord !
Break in their grasp the shield and
sword,
And make thy righteous judgments
known
Till all thy foes are overthrown !
Then, Father, lay thy healing hand
In mercy on our stricken land ;
Lead all its wanderers to the fold,
And be their Shepherd as of old.
So shall one Nation's song ascend
To thee, our Ruler, Father, Friend,
While Heaven's wide arch resounds
again
With Peace on earth, good-will to men !
1S65.
HYMN
FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO.
GOD ! in danger's darkest hour,
In battle's deadliest field,
Thy name has been our Nation's tower,
Thy truth her help and shield.
Our lips should fill the air with praise,
Nor pay the debt we owe,
So high above the songs we raise
The floods of mercy flow.
Yet thou wilt hear the prayer we
speak,
The song of praise we sing,
Thy children, who thine altar seek
Their grateful gifts to bring.
Ruler of Nations, judge our cause !
If we have kept thy holy laws,
Thine altar is the sufferer's bed,
The home of woe and pain,
The soldier's turfy pillow, red
With battle's crimson rain.
254
SONGS.. OF MANY SEASONS.
No smoke of burning stains the air,
No incense-clouds arise ;
Thy peaceful servants, Lord, prepare
A bloodless sacrifice.
Lo ! for our wounded brothers' need,
We bear the wine and oil ;
For us they faint, for us they bleed,
For them our gracious toil !
Father, bless the gifts we bring !
Cause thou thy face to shine,
Till every nation owns her King,
And all the earth is thine.
1865.
SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL.
255
SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL.
AMERICA TO RUSSIA.
AUGUST 5, 1866.
BEAD BY HON. O. V. FOX AT A DINNER GIVEN
TO THE MISSION FROM THE UNITED STATES,
ST. PETERSBURG.
THOUGH watery deserts hold apart
The worlds of East and West,
Still beats the selfsame human heart
In each proud Nation's breast.
Our floating turret tempts the main
And dares the howling blast
To clasp more close the golden chain
That long has bound them fast.
In vain the gales of ocean sweep,
In vain the billows roar
That chafe the wild and stormy steep
Of storied Elsinore.
She comes ! She comes ! her banners
dip
In Neva's flashing tide,
With greetings on her cannon's lip,
The storm-god's iron bride !
Peace garlands with the olive-bough
Her thunder-bearing tower,
And plants before her cleaving prow
The sea-foam's milk-white flower.
No prairies heaped their garnered store
To fill her sunless hold,
Not rich Nevada's gleaming ore
Its hidden caves infold,
But lightly as the sea-bird swings
She floats the depths above,
A breath of flame to lend her wings,
Her freight a people's love !
When darkness hid the starry skies
In war's long winter night,
One ray still cheered our straining eyes,
The far-off Northern light !
And now the friendly rays return
From lights that glow afar,
Those clustered lamps of Heaven that
burn
Around the Western Star.
A nation's love in tears and smiles
We bear across the sea,
Neva of the banded isles,
We moor our hearts in thee !
WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE
ALEXIS.
MUSIC HALL, DECEMBER 9, 1871.
SUNG TO THE RUSSIAN NATIONAL AIR BY THE
CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS.
SHADOWED so long by the storm-cloud
of danger,
Thou whom the prayers of an empire
defend,
Welcome, thrice welcome ! but not as a
stranger,
Come to the nation that calls thee its
friend !
256
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Bleak are our shores with the blasts of i The dwellers by Neva its meaning can
December,
Fettered and chill is the rivulet's flow ;
Throbbing and warm are the hearts that
remember
Who was our friend when the world
was our foe.
Look on the lips that are smiling to greet
thee,
See the fresh flowers that a people has
strewn :
Count them thy sisters and brothers
that meet thee ;
Guest of the Nation, her heart is
thine own !
Fires of the North, in eternal commun-
ion,
Blend your broad flashes with even-
ing's bright star !
God bless the Empire that loves the
Great Union ;
Strength to her people ! Long life to
the Czar !
AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND
DUKE ALEXIS.
DECEMBER 9, 1871.
ONE word to the guest we have gathered
to greet !
The echoes are longing that word to
repeat,
It springs to the lips that are waiting to
part,
For its syllables spell themselves first in
the heart.
Its accents may vary, its sound may be
strange,
But it bears a kind message that noth-
ing can change ;
tell,
For the smile, its interpreter, shows it
full well.
That word ! How it gladdened the Pil-
grim of yore,
As he stood in the snow on the desolate
shore !
When the shout of the Sagamore startled
his ear
In the phrase of the Saxon, 't was music
to hear !
Ah, little could Samoset offer our sire,
The cabin, the corn-cake, the seat by
the fire ;
He had nothing to give, the poor lord
of the land,
But he gave him a WELCOME, his
heart in his hand !
The tribe of the Sachem has melted
away,
But the word that he spoke is remem-
bered to-day,
And the page that is red with the record
of shame
The tear-drops have whitened round
Samoset's name.
The word that he spoke to the Pilgrim
of old
May sound like a tale that has often
been told ;
But the welcome we speak is as fresh as
the dew,
As the kiss of a lover, that always is new !
Ay, Guest of the Nation ! each roof is
thine own
Through all the broad continent's star-
bannered zone ;
From the shore where the curtain of
morn is uprolled,
SOXGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL.
257
To the billows that flow through the
gateway of gold.
The snow-crested mountains are calling
aloud ;
Nevada to Ural speaks out of the cloud,
And Shasta shouts forth, from his throne
in the sky,
To the storm-splintered summits, the
peaks of Altai !
You must leave him, they say, till the
summer is green !
Both shores are his home, though the
waves roll between ;
And then we '11 return him, with thanks
for the same,
As fresh and as smiling and tall as he
came.
But ours is the region of Arctic delight ;
We can show him Auroras and pole-
stars by night ;
There 's a Muscovy sting in the ice-tem-
pered air,
And our firesides are warm and our
maidens are fair.
The flowers are full-blown in the gar-
landed hall,
They will bloom round his footsteps
wherever they fall ;
For the splendors of youth and the sun-
shine they bring
Make the roses believe 't is the sum-
mons of Spring.
One word of our language he needs must
know well,
But another remains that is harder to
spell ;
We shall speak it so ill, if he wishes to
learn
How we utter Farewell, he will have to
return !
AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE
EMBASSY.
AUGUST 21, 1868.
BROTHERS, whom we may not reach
Through the veil of alien speech,
Welcome ! welcome ! eyes can tell
What the lips in vain would spell,
Words that hearts can understand,
Brothers from the Flowery Land !
We, the evening's latest born,
Hail the children of the morn !
We, the new creation's birth,
Greet the lords of ancient earth,
From their storied walls and towers
Wandering to these tents of ours !
Land of wonders, fair Cathay,
Who long hast shunned the staring day,
Hid in mists of poet's dreams
By thy blue and yellow streams,
Let us thy shadowed form behold,
Teach us as thou didst of old.
Knowledge dwells with length of days ;
Wisdom walks in ancient ways ;
Thine the compass that could guide
A nation o'er the stormy tide,
Scourged by passions, doubts, and fears,
Safe through thrice a thousand years !
Looking from thy turrets gray
Thou hast seen the world's decay,
Egypt drowning in her sands,
Athens rent by robbers' hands,
Rome, the wild barbarian's prey,
Like a storm-cloud swept away :
Looking from thy turrets gray
Still we see thee. Where are they ?
And lo ! a new-born nation waits,
Sitting at the golden gates
That glitter by the sunset sea,
Waits with outspread arms for thee !
258
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Open wide, ye gates of gold,
To the Dragon's banner-fold !
Builders of the mighty wall,
Bid your mountain barriers fall !
So may the girdle of the sun
Bind the East and West in one,
Till Mount Shasta's breezes fan
The snowy peaks of Ta Sieue-Shan,
Till Erie blends its waters blue
With the waves of Tung-Ting- Hu,
Till deep Missouri lends its flow
To swell the rushing Hoang-Ho !
AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE
EMBASSY.
AUGUST 2, 1872.
WE welcome you, Lords of the Land of
the Sun !
The voice of the many sounds feebly
through one ;
Ah ! would 't were a voice of more mu-
sical tone,
But the dog-star is here, and the song-
birds have flown.
And what shall I sing that can cheat you
of smiles,
Ye heralds of peace from the Orient
isles ?
If only the Jubilee Why did you
wait ?
You are welcome, but oh ! you 're a lit-
tle too late !
We have greeted our brothers of Ireland
and France,
Round the fiddle of Strauss we have
joined in the dance,
We have lagered Herr Saro, that fine-
looking man,
And glorified Godfrey, whose name it is
Dan.
What a pity ! we 've missed it and you 've
missed it too,
We had a day ready and waiting for you ;
We 'd have shown you provided, of
course, you had come
You 'd have heard no, you would n't,
because it was dumb.
And then the great organ ! The chorus's
shout !
Like the mixture teetotalers call, " Cold
without "
A mingling of elements, strong, but not
sweet ;
And the drum, just referred to, that
'* could n't be beat."
The shrines of our pilgrims are not like
your own,
Where white Fusiyama lifts proudly its
cone,
(The snow-mantled mountain we see on
the fan
That cools our hot cheeks with a breeze
from Japan.)
But ours the wide temple where worship
is free
As the wind of the prairie, the wave of
the sea ;
You may build your own altar wherever
you will,
For the roof of that temple is over you
still.
One dome overarches the star-bannered
shore ;
You may enter the Pope's or the Puri-
tan's door,
Or pass with the Buddhist his gateway
of bronze,
For a priest is but Man, be he bishop or
bonze.
And the lesson we teach with the sword
and the pen
SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL.
259
Is to all of God's children, " We also are
men !
If you wrong us we smart, if you prick
us we bleed,
If you love us, no quarrel with color or
creed ! "
You '11 find us a well-meaning, free-
spoken crowd,
Good-natured enough, but a little too
loud,
To be sure there is always a bit of a row
When we choose our Tycoon, and espe-
cially now.
You '11 take it all calmly, we want
you to see
What a peaceable fight such a contest
can be,
And of one thing be certain, however it
ends,
You will find that our voters have chosen
your friends.
If the horse that stands saddled is first
in the race,
You will greet your old friend with the
weed in his face,
And if the white hat and the White
House agree,
You '11 find H. G. really as loving as he.
But 0, what a pity once more I must
say
That we could not have joined in a
"Japanese day" !
Such greeting we give you to-night as
we can ;
Long life to our brothers and friends of
Japan !
The Lord of the mountain looks down
from his crest
As the banner of morning unfurls in the
West ;
The Eagle was always the friend of the
Sun ;
You are welcome ! The song of the
cage -bird is done.
BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.
NOVEMBER 3, 1864.
EVEN-HANDED Nature ! we confess
This life that men so honor, love, and
bless
Has filled thine olden measure. Not the
less
We count the precious seasons that re-
main ;
Strike not the level of the golden grain,
But heap it high with years, that earth
may gain
What heaven can lose, for heaven is
rich in song :
Do not all poets, dying, still prolong
Their broken chants amid the seraph
throng,
Where, blind no more, Ionia's bard is
seen,
And England's heavenly minstrel sits
between
The Mantuan and the wan-cheeked
Florentine ?
This was the first sweet singer in the
cage
Of our close-woven life. A new-born
age
Claims in his vesper song its heritage :
Spare us, O, spare us long our heart's
desire !
Moloch, who calls our children through
the fire,
Leaves us the gentle master of the lyre.
260
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
We count not on the dial of the sun
The hours, the minutes, that his sands
have run ;
Rather, as on those flowers that one by
one
From earliest dawn their ordered bloom
display
Till evening's planet with her guiding
ray
Leads in the blind old mother of the
day,
We reckon by his songs, each song a
flower,
The long, long daylight, numbering
hour by hour,
Each breathing sweetness like a bridal
bower.
His morning glory shall we e'er forget?
His noontide's full-blown lily coronet ?
His evening primrose has not opened
yet;
Nay, even if creeping Time should hide
the skies
In midnight from his century-laden
eyes,
Darkened like his who sang of Paradise,
Would not some hidden song-bud open
bright
As the resplendent cactus of the night
That floods the gloom with fragrance
and with light ?
How can we praise the verse whose
music flows
With solemn cadence and majestic close,
Pure as the dew that filters through the
rose?
How shall we thank him that in evil
davs
He faltered never, nor for blame, nor
praise,
Nor hire, nor party, shamed his earlier
lays?
But as his boyhood was of manliest hue,
So to his youth his manly years were
true,
All dyed in royal purple through and
through !
He for whose touch the lyre of Heaven
is strung
Needs not the flattering toil of mortal
tongue :
Let not the singer grieve to die unsung !
Marbles forget their message to man-
kind :
In his own verse the poet still we find,
In his own page his memory lives en-
shrined,
As in their amber sweets the smothered
bees,
As the fair cedar, fallen before the
breeze,
Lies self-embalmed amidst the moulder-
ing trees.
Poets, like youngest children, never
grow
Out of their mother's fondness. Nature
so
Holds their soft hands, and will not let
them go,
Till at the last they track with even feet
Her rhythmic footsteps, and their pulses
beat
Twinned with her pulses, and their lips
repeat
The secrets she has told them, as their
SOXGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL.
261
Thus is the inmost soul of Nature known,
And the rapt minstrel shares her awful
throne !
O lover of her mountains and her woods,
Her bridal chamber's leafy solitudes,
Where Love himself with tremulous
step intrudes,
Her snows fall harmless on thy sacred
fire:
Far be the day that claims thy sounding
lyre
To join the music of the angel choir !
Yet, since life's amplest measure must
be filled,
Since throbbing hearts must be forever
stilled,
And all must fade that evening sunsets
gild,
Grant, Father, ere he close the mortal
eyes
That see a Nation's reeking sacrifice,
Its smoke may vanish from these black-
ened skies !
Then, when his summons comes, since
come it must,
And, looking heavenward with unfalter-
ing trust,
He wraps his drapery round him for the
dust,
His last fond glance will show him o'er
his head
The Northern fires beyond the zenith
spread
In lambent glory, blue and white and
red,
The Southern cross without its bleeding
load,
The milky way of peace all freshly
s trowed,
And every white-throned star fixed in
its lost abode !
AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT.
JULY 31, 1865.
WHEN treason first began the strife
That crimsoned sea and shore,
The Nation poured her hoarded life
On Freedom's threshing-floor ;
From field and prairie, east and west,
From coast and hill and plain,
The sheaves of ripening manhood pressed
Thick as the bearded grain.
Rich was the harvest ; souls as true
As ever battle tried ;
But fiercer still the conflict grew,
The floor of death more wide ;
Ah, who forgets that dreadful day
Whose blot of grief and shame
Four bitter years scarce wash away
In seas of blood and flame ?
Vain, vain the Nation's lofty boasts,
Vain all her sacrifice !
" Give me a man to lead my hosts,
God in heaven ! " she cries.
While Battle whirls his crushing flail,
And plies his winnowing fan,
Thick flies the chaff on every gale,
She cannot find her man !
Bravely they fought who failed to win,
Our leaders battle-scarred,
Fighting the hosts of hell and sin,
But devils die always hard !
Blame not the broken tools of God
That helped our sorest needs ;
Through paths that martyr feet have trod
The conqueror's steps he leads.
262
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
But now the heavens grow black with
doubt,
The ravens fill the sky,
"Friends" plot within, foes storm with-
out,
Hark, that despairing cry,
" Where is the heart, the hand, the
brain
To dare, to do, to plan ? "
The bleeding Nation shrieks in vain,
She has not found her man !
A little echo stirs the air,
Some tale, whate'er it be,
Of rebels routed in their lair
Along the Tennessee.
The little echo spreads and grows,
And soon the trump of Fame
Had taught the Nation's friends and
foes
The "man on horseback " 's name.
So well his warlike wooing sped,
No fortress might resist
His billets-doux of lisping lead,
The bayonets in his fist,
"With kisses from his cannons' mouth
He made his passion known
Till Vicksburg, vestal of the South,
Unbound her virgin zone.
And still where'er his banners led
He conquered as he came,
The trembling hosts of treason fled
Before his breath of flame,
And Fame's still gathering echoes grew
Till high o'er Richmond's towers
The starry fold of Freedom flew,
And all the land was ours.
Welcome from fields where valor fought
To feasts where pleasure waits ;
A Nation gives you smiles unbought
At all her opening gates !
Forgive us when we press your hand,
Your war-worn features scan,
God sent you to a bleeding land ;
Our Nation found its man !
AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT.
JULY 6, 1865.
Now, smiling friends and shipmates all,
Since half our battle 's won,
A broadside for our Admiral !
Load every crystal gun !
Stand ready till I give the word,
You won't have time to tire,
And when that glorious name is heard,
Then hip ! hurrah ! and fire !
Bow foremost sinks the rebel craft,
Our eyes not sadly turn
And see the pirates huddling aft
To drop their raft astern ;
Soon o'er the sea- worm's destined prey
The lifted wave shall close,
So perish from the face of day
All Freedom's banded foes !
But ah ! what splendors fire the sky !
What glories greet the morn !
The storm-tost banner streams on high
Its heavenly hues new-born !
Its red fresh dyed in heroes' blood,
Its peaceful white more pure,
To float unstained o'er field and flood
While earth and seas endure !
All shapes before the driving blast
Must glide from mortal view ;
Black roll the billows of the past
Behind the present's blue,
Fast, fast, are lessening in the light
The names of high renown,
Van Tromp's proud besom fades from
sight,
And Nelson 's half hull down !
SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL.
263
Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea
Or skirts the safer shores
Of all that bore to victory
Our stout old Commodores ;
Hull, Bain bridge, Porter, where are
they ?
The waves their answer roll,
" Still bright in memory's sunset ray,
God rest each gallant soul ! "
A brighter name must dim their light
With more than noontide ray,
The Sea-King of the " River Fight,"
The Conqueror of the Bay,
Now then the broadside ! cheer on cheer
To greet him safe on shore !
Health, peace, and many a bloodless year
To fight his battles o'er !
A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS.
FEBRUARY 16, 1874.
THE painter's and the poet's fame
Shed their twinned lustre round his
name,
To gild our story-teller's art,
Where each in turn must play his part.
What scenes from Wilkie's pencil sprung,
The minstrel saw but left unsung !
What shapes the pen of Collins drew,
No painter clad in living hue !
But on our artist's shadowy screen
A stranger miracle is seen
Than priest unveils or pilgrim seeks,
The poem breathes, the picture speaks !
And so his double name comes true,
They christened better than they knew,
And Art proclaims him twice her son,
Painter and poet, both in one !
TO H. W. LONGFELLOW.
BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE,
MAY 27, 1868.
OUR Poet, who has taught the Western
breeze
To waft his songs before him o'er the
Will find them wheresoe'er his wan-
derings reach
Borne on the spreading tide of English
speech
Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss
the farthest beach.
Where shall the singing bird a stranger
be
That finds a nest for him in every tree ?
How shall he travel who can never go
Where his own voice the echoes do
not know,
Where his own garden flowers no longer
learn to grow ?
Ah, gentlest soul ! how gracious, how
benign
Breathes through our troubled life that
voice of thine,
Filled with a sweetness born of hap-
pier spheres,
That wins and warms, that kindles,
softens, cheers,
That calms the wildest woe and stays
the bitterest tears !
Forgive the simple words that sound
like praise ;
The mist before me dims my gilded
phrase ;
Our speech at best is half alive and
cold,
And save that tenderer moments make
us bold
Our whitening lips would close, their
truest truth untold.
264
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
We who behold our autumn sun below
The Scorpion's sign, against the Arch-
er's bow,
Know well what parting means of
friend from friend ;
After the snows no freshening dews
descend,
And what the frost has marred, the sun-
shine will not mend.
So we all count the months, the weeks,
the days,
That keep thee from us in unwonted
ways,
Grudging to alien hearths our widowed
time ;
And one has shaped a breath in artless
rhyme
That sighs, "We track thee still through
each remotest clime."
What wishes, longings, blessings,
prayers shall be
The more than golden freight that
floats with thee !
And know, whatever welcome thou
shalt find,
Thou who hast won the hearts of half
mankind,
The proudest, fondest love thou leavest
still behind !
TO CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHREN-
BERG.
FOR HIS "JUBILJEUM" AT BERLIN,
NOVEMBER 5, 1868.
THOU who hast taught the teachers of
mankind
How from the least of things the
mightiest grow,
What marvel jealous Nature made thee
blind,
Lest man should learn what angels
long to know ?
Thou in the flinty rock, the river's flow,
In the thick-moted sunbeam's sifted
light
Hast trained thy downward-pointed tube
to show
Worlds within worlds unveiled to mor-
tal sight,
Even as the patient watchers of the
night,
The cy elope gleaners of the fruitful
skies,
Show the wide misty way where heaven
is white
All paved with suns that daze our
wondering eyes.
Far o'er the stormy deep an empire lies,
Beyond the storied islands of the
blest,
That waits to see the lingering day-star
rise ;
The forest-cinctured Eden of the .
West ;
Whose queen, fair Freedom, twines her
iron crest
With leaves from every wreath that
mortals wear,
But loves the sober garland ever best
That Science lends the sage's silvered
hair ;
Science, who makes life's heritage more
fair,
Forging for every lock its mastering
key,
Filling with life and hope the stagnant
air,
Pouring the light of Heaven o'er land
and sea !
From her unsceptred realm we come to
thee,
Bearing our slender tribute in our
hands ;
Deem it not worthless, humble though
it be,
Set by the larger gifts of older lands :
SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREAVELL.
265
The smallest fibres weave the strongest
bands,
In narrowest tubes the sovereign nerves
are spun,
A little cord along the deep sea-sands
Makes the live thought of severed na-
tions one :
Thy fame has journeyed westering with
the sun,
Prairies and lone sierras know thy
name
And the long day of service nobly done
That crowns thy darkened evening
with its flame !
One with the grateful world, we own thy
claim,
Nay, rather claim our right to join the
throng
Who come with varied tongues, but
hearts the same,
To hail thy festal morn with smiles
and song ;
Ah, happy they to whom the joys be-
long
Of peaceful triumphs that can never die
From History's record, not of gilded
wrong,
But golden truths that while the
world goes by
"With all its empty pageant, blazoned
high
Around the Master's name forever
shine !
So shines thy name illumined in the
sky,
Such joys, such triumphs, such re-
membrance thine !
266
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
MEMORIAL VERSES.
FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
CITY OF BOSTON, JUNE 1, 1865.
CHORAL: Luther's "Judgment Hymn."
O THOU of soul and sense and breath,
The ever-present Giver,
Unto thy mighty Angel, Death,
All flesh thou dost deliver ;
What most we cherish we resign,
For life and death alike are thine,
Who reignest Lord forever !
Our hearts lie buried in the dust
With him so true and tender,
The patriot's stay, the people's trust,
The shield of the offender ;
Yet every murmuring voice is still,
As, bowing to thy sovereign will,
Our best-loved we surrender.
Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold
This martyr generation,
Which thou, through trials manifold,
Art showing thy salvation !
let the blood by murder spilt
Wash out thy stricken children's guilt
And sanctify our nation !
Be thou thy orphaned Israel's friend,
Forsake thy people never,
In One our broken Many blend,
That none again may sever !
Hear us, Father, while we raise
With trembling lips our song of praise,
And bless thy name forever !
FOR THE COMMEMORATION SER-
VICES.
CAMBRIDGE, JULY 21, 1865.
FOUR summers coined their golden light
in leaves,
Four wasteful autumns flung them to
the gale,
Four winters wore the shroud the tem-
pest weaves,
The fourth wan April weeps o'er hill
and vale ;
And still the war-clouds scowl on sea
and land,
With the red gleams of battle staining
through,
When lo ! as parted by an angel's
hand,
They open, and the heavens again are
blue !
Which is the dream, the present or the
past ?
The night of anguish or the joyous
morn ?
The long, long years with horrors over-
cast,
Or the sweet promise of the day new-
born ?
Tell us, father, as thine arms infold
Thy belted first-born in their fast em-
brace,
Murmuring the prayer the patriarch
breathed of old,
" Now let me die, for I have seen thy
face ! "
MEMORIAL VERSES.
267
Tell us, mother, nay, thou canst
not speak,
But thy fond eyes shall answer,
brimmed with joy,
Press thy mute lips against the sun-
browned cheek,
Is this a phantom, thy returning
boy?
Tell us, maiden Ah,, what canst
thou tell
That Nature's record is not first to
teach,
The open volume all can .read so well,
With its twin rose-hued pages full of
speech ?
And ye who mourn your dead, how
sternly true
The crushing hour that wrenched their
lives away,
Shadowed with sorrow's midnight veil
for you,
For them the dawning of immortal
day!
Dream-like these years of conflict, not a
dream !
Death, ruin, ashes tell the awful tale,
Bead by the flaming war-track's lurid
gleam :
No dream, but truth that turns the
nations pale !
For on the pillar raised by martyr
hands
Burns the rekindled beacon of the
right,
Sowing its seeds of fire o'er all the
lands,
Thrones look a century older in its
light !
Rome had her triumphs ; round the con-
queror's car
The ensigns waved, the brazen clar-
ions blew,
And o'er the reeking spoils of bandit
war
With outspread wings the cruel eagles
flew;
Arms, treasures, captives, kings in clank-
ing chains
Urged on by trampling cohorts bronzed
and scarred,
And wild-eyed wonders snared on Lyb-
ian plains,
Lion and ostrich and camelopard.
Vain all that praetors clutched, that
consuls brought
When Rome's returning legions
crowned their lord ;
Less than the least brave deed these
hands have wrought,
We clasp, unclinching from the bloody
sword.
Theirs was the mighty work that seers
foretold ;
They know not half their glorious toil
has won,
For this is Heaven's same battle,
joined of old
When Athens fought for us at Mara-
thon !
Behold a vision none hath under-
stood !
The breaking of the Apocalyptic seal ;
Twice rings the summons. Hail and
fire and blood !
Then the third angel blows his trum-
pet-peal.
Loud wail the dwellers on the myrtled
coasts,
The green savannas swell the mad-
dened cry,
268
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
And with a yell from all the demon hosts
Falls the great star called Wormwood
from the sky !
Bitter it mingles with the poisoned flow
Of the warm rivers winding to the
shore,
Thousands must drink the waves of
death and woe,
But the star Wormwood stains the
heavens no more !
Peace smiles at last ; the Nation calls
her sons
To sheathe the sword ; her "battle-flag
she furls,
Speaks in glad thunders from unshotted
guns,
No terror shrouded in the smoke-
wreath's curls.
ye that fought for Freedom, living,
dead,
One sacred host of God's anointed
Queen,
For every holy drop your veins have shed
We breathe a welcome to our bowers
of green !
Welcome, ye living ! from the foeman's
gripe
Your country's banner it was yours
to wrest,
Ah, many a forehead shows the banner-
stripe,
And stars, once crimson, hallow many
a breast.
And ye, pale heroes, who from glory's
bed
Mark when your old battalions form
in line,
Move in their marching ranks with
noiseless, tread,
And shape unheard the evening coun-
tersign,
Come with your comrades, the returning
brave ;
Shoulder to shoulder they await you
here ;
These lent the life their martyr-brothers
gave,
Living and dead alike forever dear !
EDWARD EVERETT.
"OUR FIRST CITIZEN." 1
WINTER'S cold drift lies glistening o'er
his breast ;
For him no spring shall bid the leaf
unfold :
What Love could speak, by sudden grief
oppressed,
What swiftly summoned Memory tell,
is told.
Even as the bells, in one consenting
chime,
Filled with their sweet vibrations all
the air,
So joined all voices, in that mournful
time,
His genius, wisdom, virtues, to de-
clare.
What place is left for words of measured
praise,
Till calm-eyed History, with her iron
pen,
Grooves in the unchanging rock the
final phrase
That shapes his image in the souls of
men ?
Yet while the echoes still repeat his
name,
While countless tongues his full-orbed
life rehearse,
i Read at the meeting of the Massachusetts
Historical Society, January 30, 1865.
MEMORIAL VERSES.
269
Love, by his beating pulses taught, will
claim
The breath of song, the tuneful throb
of verse,
Terse that, in ever-changing ebb and
flow,
Moves, like the laboring heart, with
rush and rest,
Or swings in solemn cadence, sad and
slow,
Like the tired heaving of a grief- worn
breast.
This was a mind so rounded, so com-
plete ;
No partial gift of Nature in excess ;
That, like a single stream where many
meet,
Each separate talent counted some-
thing less.
A little hillock, if it lonely stand,
Holds o'er the fields an undisputed
reign ;
While the broad summit of the table-
land
Seems with its belt of clouds a level
plain.
Servant of all his powers, that faithful
slave,
Unsleeping Memory, strengthening
with his toils,
To every ruder task his shoulder gave,
And loaded every day with golden
spoils.
Order, the law of Heaven, was throned
supreme
O'er action, instinct, impulse, feeling,
thought ;
True as the dial's shadow to the beam,
Each hour was equal to the charge it
brought.
Too large his compass for the nicer skill
That weighs the world of science grain
by grain ;
All realms of knowledge owned the mas-
tering will
That claimed the franchise of its
whole domain.
Earth, air, sea, sky, the elemental fire,
Art, history, song, what meanings
lie in each
Found in his cunning hand a stringless
lyre,
And poured their mingling music
through his speech.
Thence flowed those anthems of our fes-
tal days,
Whose ravishing division held apart
The lips of listening throngs in sweet
amaze,
Moved in^ all breasts the selfsame
human heart.
Subdued his accents, as of one who tries
To press some care, some haunting
sadness down ;
His smile half shadow ; and to stranger
eyes
The kingly forehead wore an iron
crown.
He was not armed to wrestle with the
storm,
To fight for homely truth with vulgar
power ;
Jrace looked from every feature, shaped
his form,
The rose of Academe, the perfect
flower !
Such was the stately scholar whom we
knew
In those ill days of soul-enslaving
calm,
270
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Before the blast of Northern vengeance
blew
Her snow-wreathed pine against the
Southern palm.
Ah, God forgive us ! did we hold too
cheap
The heart we might have known, but
would not see,
And look to find the nation's friend
asleep
Through the dread hour of her Geth-
semane ?
That wrong is past ; we gave him up to
Death
With all a hero's honors round his
name ;
As martyrs coin their blood, he coined
his breath,
And dimmed the scholar's in the
patriot's fame.
So shall we blazon on the shaft we
raise,
Telling our grief, our pride, to un-
born years,
"He who had lived the mark of all
men's praise
Died with the tribute of a Nation's
tears."
SHAKESPEARE.
TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.
APRIL 23, 1864.
"WHO claims our Shakespeare from
that realm unknown,
Beyond the storm-vexed islands of
the deep,
Where Genoa's roving mariner was
blown ?
Her twofold Saint's-day let our Eng-
land keep ;
Shall warring aliens share her holy
task ? "
The Old World echoes ask.
land of Shakespeare ! ours with all
thy past,
Till these last years that make the
sea so wide,
Think not the jar of battle's trumpet-
blast
Has dulled our aching sense to joyous
pride
In every noble word thy sons bequeathed
The air our fathers breathed !
War-wasted, haggard, panting from the
strife,
We turn to other days and far-off
lands,
Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded life,
Come with fresh lilies in our fevered
hands
To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple
flowers,
Not his the need, but ours !
We call those poets who are first to
mark
Through earth's dull mist the coming
of the dawn,
Who see in twilight's gloom the first
pale spark,
While others only note that day is
gone;
For him the Lord of light the curtain
rent
That veils the firmament.
The greatest for its greatness is half
known,
Stretching beyond our narrow quad-
rant-lines,
As in that world of Nature all outgrown
Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines,
MEMORIAL VERSES.
271
And cast from Mariposa's mountain
wall
Nevada's cataracts fall.
Yet heaven's remotest orb is partly ours
Throbbing its radiance like a beating
heart;
In the wide compass of angelic powers
The instinct of the blindworm has its
part;
So in God's kingliest creature we beholc
The flower our buds infold.
With no vain praise we mock the stone-
carved name
Stamped once on dust that moved
with pulse and breath,
As thinking to enlarge that amplest
fame
Whose undimmed glories gild the
night of death:
We praise not star or sun ; in these we
see
Thee, Father, only thee !
Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power,
and love:
We read, we reverence on this human
soul,
Earth's clearest mirror of the light
above,
Plain as the record on thy prophet's
scroll,
When o'er his page the effluent splen-
dors poured,
Thine own, ' * Thus saith the Lord ! "
This player was a prophet from on high,
Thine own elected. Statesman, poet,
sage,
For him thy sovereign pleasure passed
them by;
Sidney's fair youth, and Raleigh's
ripened age,
Spenser's chaste soul, and his imperial
mind
Who taught and shamed mankind.
Therefore we bid our hearts' Te Deum
rise,
Nor fear to make thy worship less di-
vine,
And hear the shouted choral shake the
skies,
Counting all glory, power, and wis-
dom thine ;
For thy great gift thy greater name
adore,
And praise thee evermore !
In this dread hour of Nature's utmost
need,
Thanks for these unstained drops of
freshening dew!
0, while our martyrs fall, our heroes
bleed,
Keep us to every sweet remembrance
true,
Till from this blood-red sunset springs
new-born
Our Nation's second morn !
IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT
WARE.
READ AT THE ANNUAL MEETING OF
THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SO-
CIETY, MAY 25, 1864.
'o mystic charm, no mortal art,
Can bid our loved companions stay ;
The bands that clasp them to our heart
Snap in death's frost and fall apart ;
Like shadows fading with the day,
They pass away.
?he young are stricken in their pride,
The old, long tottering, faint and fall ;
\Iaster and scholar, side by side,
272
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Through the dark portals silent glide,
That open in life's mouldering wall
And close on all.
Our friend's, our teacher's task was done,
When Mercy called him from on high ;
A little cloud had dimmed the sun,
The saddening hours had just begun,
And darker days were drawing nigh :
'T was time to die.
A whiter soul, a fairer mind,
A life with purer course and aim,
A gentler eye, a voice more kind,
We may not look on earth to find.
The love that lingers o'er his name
Is more than fame.
These blood-red summers ripen fast ;
The sons are older than the sires ;
Ere yet the tree to earth is cast,
The sapling falls before the blast ;
Life's ashes keep their covered fires,
Its flame expires.
Struck by the noiseless, viewless foe,
Whose deadlier breath than shot or
shell
Has laid the best and bravest low,
His boy, all bright in morning's glow,
That high-souled youth he loved so
well,
Untimely fell.
Yet still he wore his placid smile,
And, trustful in the cheering creed
That strives all sorrow to beguile,
Walked calmly on his way awhile :
Ah, breast that leans on breaking reed
Must ever bleed !
So they both left us, sire and son,
With opening leaf, with laden bough :
The youth whose race was just begun,
The wearied man whose course was run,
Its record written on his brow,
Are brothers now.
Brothers ! The music of the sound
Breathes softly through my closing
strain ;
The floor we tread is holy ground,
Those gentle spirits hovering round,
While our fair circle joins again
Its broken chain.
1864.
HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY.
CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEM-
BER 14, 1869.
BONAPARTE, AUGUST 15, 1769. HUM-
BOLDT, SEPTEMBER 14, 1769.
ERE yet the warning chimes of midnight
sound,
Set back the flaming index of the year,
Track the swift-shifting seasons in their
round
Through fivescore circles of the swing-
ing sphere.
Lo, in yon islet of the midland sea
That cleaves the storm-cloud with its
snowy crest,
The embryo-heir of Empires yet to be,
A month-old babe upon his mother's
breast.
Those little hands that soon shall grow
so strong
In their rude grasp great thrones shall
rock and fall,
Press her soft bosom, while a nursery
song
Holds the world's master in its slender
thrall.
Look ! a new crescent bends its silver
bow ;
A new-lit star has fired the eastern
sky ;
MEMORIAL VERSES.
273
Hark ! by the river where the lindens
blow
A waiting household hears an infant's
cry.
This, too, a conqueror ! His the vast
domain,
Wider than widest sceptre -shadowed
lands ;
Earth, and the weltering kingdom of the
main
Laid their broad charters in his royal
hands.
His was no taper lit in cloistered cage,
Its glimmer borrowed from the grove
or porch ;
He read the record of the planet's page
By Etna's glare and Cotopaxi's torch.
He heard the voices of the pathless
woods ;
On the salt steppes he saw the star-
light shine ;
He scaled the mountain's windy soli-
tudes,
And trod the galleries of the breath-
less mine.
For him no fingering of the love-strung
lyre,
No problem vague, by torturing school-
men vexed ;
He fed no broken altar's dying fire,
Nor skulked and scowled behind a
Rabbi's text.
For God's new truth he claimed the
kingly robe
That priestly shoulders counted all
their own,
Unrolled the gospel of the storied globe
And led young Science to her empty
throne.
While the round planet on its axle
spins
One fruitful year shall boast its double
birth,
And show the cradles of its mighty
twins,
Master and Servant of the sons of
earth.
Which wears the garland that shall never
fade,
Sweet with fair memories that can
never die ?
Ask not the marbles where their bones
are laid,
But bow thine ear to hear thy brothers'
cry :
"Tear up the despot's laurels by the
root,
Like mandrakes, shrieking as they
quit the soil !
Feed us no more upon the blood-red
fruit
That sucks its crimson from the heart
of Toil !
" We claim the food that fixed our mor-
tal fate,
Bend to our reach the long-forbidden
tree!
The angel frowned at Eden's eastern
gate,
Its western portal is forever free !
" Bring the white blossoms of the waning
year,
Heap with full hands the peaceful con-
queror's shrine
Whose bloodless triumphs cost no suf-
ferer's tear !
Hero of knowledge, be our tribute
thine ! "
274
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
POEM
AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK
MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869.
SAY not the Poet dies !
Though in the dust he lies,
He cannot forfeit his melodious breath,
Unsphered by envious death !
Life drops the voiceless myriads from
its roll ;
Their fate he cannot share,
Who, in the enchanted air
Sweet with the lingering strains that
Echo stole,
Has left his dearer self, the music of his
soul !
"We o'er his turf may raise
Our notes of feeble praise,
And carve with pious care for after
eyes
The stone with " Here he lies " ;
He for himself has built a nobler
shrine,
Whose walls of stately rhyme
Boll back the tides of time,
While o'er their gates the gleaming
tablets shine
That wear his name inwrought with
many a golden line !
Call not our Poet dead,
Though on his turf we tread !
Green is the wreath their brows so
long have worn,
The minstrels of the morn,
Who, while the Orient burned with new-
born flame,
Caught that celestial fire
And struck a Nation's lyre !
These taught the western winds the
poet's name ;
Theirs the first opening buds, the maiden
flowers of fame !
Count not our Poet dead !
The stars shall watch his bed,
The rose of June its fragrant life renew
His blushing mound to strew,
And all the tuneful throats of summer
swell
With trills as crystal-clear
As when he wooed the ear
Of the young muse that haunts each
wooded dell,
With songs of that " rough land" he
loved so long and well 1
He sleeps ; he cannot die !
As evening's long-drawn sigh,
Lifting the rose-leaves on his peaceful
mound,
Spreads all their sweets around,
So, laden with his song, the breezes
blow
From where the rustling sedge
Frets our rude ocean's edge
To the smooth sea beyond the peaks
of snow.
His soul the air enshrines and leaves but
dust below !
HYMN
FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAY-
ING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF HAR-
VARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE,
OCTOBER 6, 1870.
NOT with the anguish of hearts that are
breaking
Come we as mourners to weep for our
dead ;
Grief in our breasts has grown weary of
aching,
Green is the turf where our tears we
have shed.
While o'er their marbles the mosses are
creeping,
MEMORIAL VERSES.
275
Stealing each name and its legend
away,
Give their proud story to Memory's
keeping,
Shrined in the temple we hallow to-
day.
Hushed are their battle-fields, ended
their marches,
Deaf are their ears to the drum-beat
of morn,
Rise from the sod, ye fair columns and
arches !
Tell their bright deeds to the ages un-
born !
Emblem and legend may fade from the
portal,
Keystone may crumble and pillar may
fall;
They were the builders whose work is
immortal,
Crowned with the dome that is over
us all !
HYMN
FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL
HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, JUNE 23, 1874.
WHERE, girt around by savage foes,
Our nurturing Mother's shelter rose,
Behold, the lofty temple stands,
Reared by her children's grateful hands !
Firm are the pillars that defy
The volleyed thunders of the sky ;
Sweet are the summer wreaths that
twine
With bud and flower our martyrs'
shrine.
The hues their tattered colors bore
Fall mingling on the sunlit floor
Till evening spreads her spangled pall,
And wraps in shade the storied hall.
Firm were their hearts in danger's
hour,
Sweet was their manhood's morning
flower,
Their hopes with rainbow hues were
bright,
How swiftly winged the sudden night !
Mother ! on thy marble page
Thy children read, from age to age,
The mighty word that upward leads
Through noble thought to nobler deeds.
TRUTH, heaven-born TRUTH, their fear-
less guide,
Thy saints have lived, thy heroes
died;
Our love has reared their earthly shrine,
Their glory be forever thine !
HYMN
AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES
SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874.
SUNO BY MALE VOICES TO A NATIONAL AIR OF
HOLLAND.
ONCE more, ye sacred towers,
Your solemn dirges sound ;
Strew, loving hands, the April flowers,
Once more to deck his mound.
A nation mourns its dead,
Its sorrowing voices one,
As Israel's monarch bowed his head
And cried, " My son ! My son ! "
Why mourn for him ? For him
The welcome angel came
Ere yet his eye with age was dim
Or bent his stately frame ;
276
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
His weapon still was bright,
His shield was lifted high
To slay the wrong, to save the right,
What happier hour to die ?
Thou orderest all things well ;
Thy servant's work was done ;
He lived to hear Oppression's knell,
The shouts for Freedom won.
Hark ! from the opening skies
The anthem's echoing swell,
"O mourning Land, lift up thine
eyes !
God reigneth. All is well ! "
RHYMES OF AN HOUR.
277
RHYMES OF AN. HOUR.
ADDRESS
FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVE-
NUE THEATRE, NEW YORK, DECEM-
BER 3, 1873.
HANG out our banners on the stately
tower !
It dawns at last the long-expected
hour !
The steep is climbed, the star-lit sum-
mit won,
The builder's task, the artist's labor
done ;
Before the finished work the herald
stands,
And asks the verdict of your lips and
hands !
Shall rosy daybreak make us all for-
get
The golden sun that yester-evening
set?
Fair was the fabric doomed to pass
away
Ere the last headaches born of New
Year's Day ;
With blasting breath the fierce destroyer
came
And wrapped the victim in his robes of
flame ;
The pictured sky with redder morning
blushed,
With scorching streams the naiad's foun-
tain gushed,
With kindling mountains glowed the
funeral pyre,
Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire,
The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling cur-
tain fell,
Art spread her wings and sighed a long
farewell !
Mourn o'er the Player's melancholy
plight,
Falstaff in tears, Othello deadly
white,
Poor Romeo reckoning what his doublet
cost,
And Juliet whimpering for her dresses
lost,
Their wardrobes burned, their salaries
all undrawn,
Their cues cut short, their occupation
gone !
" Lie there in dust," the red- winged
demon cried,
" Wreck of the lordly city's hope and
pride ! "
Silent they stand, and stare with vacant
gaze,
While o'er the embers leaps the fitful
blaze ;
When, lo ! a,, hand, before the startled
train,
Writes in the ashes, ' ' It shall rise
again,
Rise and confront its elemental foes ! "
The word was spoken, and the walls
arose,
And ere the seasons round their brief
career
278
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
The new-born temple waits the unborn
year.
Ours was the toil of many a weary
day
Your smiles, your plaudits, only can
repay;
We are the monarchs of the painted
scenes,
You, you alone the real Kings and
Queens !
Lords of the little kingdom where we
meet,
We lay our gilded sceptres at your
feet,
Place in your grasp our portal's silvered
keys
With one brief utterance We have tried
to please.
Tell us, ye Sovereigns of the new do-
main,
Are you content or have we toiled in
vain ?
With no irreverent glances look
around
The realm you rule, for this is haunted
ground !
Here stalks the Sorcerer, here the Fairy
trips,
Here limps the Witch with malice-
working lips,
The Graces here their snowy arms en-
twine,
Here dwell the fairest sisters of the
Nine,
She who, with jocund voice and twink-
ling eye,
Laughs at the brood of follies as they
fly;
She of the dagger and the deadly
bowl,
Whose charming horrors thrill the trem-
bling soul;
She who, a truant from celestial spheres,
In mortal semblance now and then ap-
pears,
Stealing the fairest earthly shape she
can
Sontag or Nilsson, Lind or Malibran ;
With these the spangled houri of the
dance,
What shaft so dangerous as her melting
glance,
As poised in air she spurns the earth
below,
And points aloft her heavenly-minded
toe!
What were our life, with all its rents
and seams,
Stripped of its purple robes, our waking
dreams ?
The poet's song, the bright romancer's
page,
The tinselled shows that cheat us on
the stage
Lead all our fancies captive at their will ;
Three years or threescore, we are chil-
dren still.
The little listener on his father's knee,
With wandering Sindbad ploughs the
stormy sea,
With Gotham's sages hears the billows
roll
(Illustrious trio of the venturous bowl,
Too early shipwrecked, for they died too
soon
To see their offspring launch the great
balloon) ;
Tracks the dark brigand to his moun-
tain lair,
Slays the grim giant, saves the lady fair,
Fights all his country's battles o'er again
From Bunker's blazing height to
Lundy's lane;
Floats with the mighty Captains as
they sailed
Before whose flag the flaming red-cross
paled,
RHYMES OF AN HOUR.
279
And claims the oft-told story of the
scars
Scarce yet grown white, that saved the
stripes and stars !
Children of later growth, we love the
PLAY,
"We love its heroes, be they grave or gay,
From squeaking, peppery, devil-defying
Punch
To roaring Richard with his camel-
hunch ;
Adore its heroines, those immortal
dames,
Time's only rivals, whom he never
tames,
Whose youth, unchanging, lives while
thrones decay
(Age spares the Pyramids and Deja-
zet);
The saucy-aproned, razor-tongued sou-
brette,
The blond-haired beauty with the eyes
of jet,
The gorgeous Beings whom the viewless
wires
Lift to the skies in strontian-crimsoned
fires,
And all the wealth of splendor that
awaits
The throng that enters those Elysian
gates.
See where the hurrying crowd impa-
tient pours,
V T ith noise of trampling feet and flap-
ping doors,
ams to the numbered seat each
pasteboard fits
nd smooths its caudal plumage as it
sits ;
Vaits while the slow musicians saunter
in,
ill the bald leader taps his violin ;
'ill the old overture we know so well,
Zampa or Magic Flute or William Tell,
Has done its worst then hark ! the
tinkling bell !
The crash is o'er the crinkling cur-
tain furled,
And lo! the glories of that brighter
world !
Behold the offspring of the Thespian
cart,
This full-grown temple of the magic
art,
Where all the conjurors of illusion meet,
And please us all the more, the more
they cheat.
These are the wizards and the witches
too
Who win their honest bread by cheat-
ing you
With cheeks that drown in artificial
tears
And lying skull-caps white with seventy
years,
Sweet-tempered matrons changed to
scolding Kates,
Maids mild as moonbeams crazed with
murderous hates,
Kind, simple souls that stab and slash
and slay
And stick at nothing, if it 's in the
play!
Would all the world told half as
harmless lies!
Would all its real fools were half as wise
As he who blinks through dull Dun-
dreary's eyes !
Would all the unhanged bandits of the
age
Were like the peaceful ruffians of the
stage !
Would all the cankers wasting town and
state,
The mob of rascals, little thieves and
great,
280
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Dealers in watered milk and watered
stocks,
"Who lead us lambs to pasture on the
rocks,
Shepherds Jack Sheppards of their
city flocks
The rings of rogues that rob the luckless
town,
Those evil angels creeping up and down
The Jacob's ladder of the treasury
stairs,
Not stage, but real Turpins and Ma-
caires,
Could doff, like us, their knavery with
their clothes,
And find it easy as forgetting oaths !
Welcome, thrice welcome to our vir-
gin dome,
The Muses' shrine, the Drama's new-
found home !
Here shall the Statesman rest his weary
brain,
The worn-out Artist find his wits again ;
Here Trade forget his ledger and his
cares,
And sweet communion mingle Bulls
and Bears ;
Here shall the youthful Lover, nestling
near
The shrinking maiden, her he holds most
dear,
Gaze on the mimic moonlight as it falls
On painted groves, on sliding canvas
walls,
And sigh, " My angel ! What a life of
bliss
We two could live in such a world as
this ! "
Here shall the tumid pedants of the
schools,
The gilded boors, the labor-scorning
fools,
The grass-green rustic and the smoke-
dried cit,
Feel each in turn the stinging lash of
wit,
And as it tingles on some tender part
Each find a balsam in his neighbor's
smart ;
So every folly prove a fresh delight
As in the pictures of our play to-night.
Farewell! The Players wait the
Prompter's call ;
Friends, lovers, listeners! Welcome
one and all!
RIP VAN WINKLE, M. D.
AN AFTER-DINNER PRESCRIPTION TAKEN
BY THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL
SOCIETY, AT THEIR MEETING HELD
MAY 25, 1870.
CANTO FIRST.
OLD Rip Van Winkle had a grandson,
Rip,
Of the paternal block a genuine chip ;
A lazy, sleepy, curious kind of chap;
He, like his grandsire, took a mighty
nap,
Whereof the story I propose to tell
In two brief cantos, if you listen well.
The times were hard when Rip to man-
hood grew ;
They always will be when there 's work
to do ;
He tried at farming found it rather
slow
And then at teaching what he did n't
know ;
Then took to hanging round the tavern
bars,
To frequent toddies and long-nine cigars,
Till Dame Van Winkle, out of patience,
vexed
With preaching homilies, having for
their text
RHYMES OF AN HOUR.
281
A mop, a broomstick aught that might
avail
To point a moral or adorn a tale,
Exclaimed, " I have it ! Now then,
Mr. V. !
He 's good for something make him
an M. D. ! "
The die was cast; the youngster was
content ;
They packed his shirts and stockings,
and he went.
How hard he studied it were vain to
tell;
He drowsed through Wistar, nodded over
Bell,
Slept sound with. Cooper, snored aloud
on Good ;
Heard heaps of lectures doubtless un-
derstood
A constant listener, for he did not fail
To carve his name on every bench and
rail.
Months grew to years ; at last he counted
three,
And Rip Van Winkle found himself M. D.
Illustrious title ! in a gilded frame
He set the sheepskin with his Latin
name,
RIPUM VAN WIXKLUM, QUEM we
SCIMUS know
IDONEUM ESSE to do so and so ;
He hired an office ; soon its walls dis-
played
His new diploma and his stock in trade,
A mighty arsenal to subdue disease,
Of various names, whereof I mention
these :
Lancets and bougies, great and little
squirt,
Rhubarb and Senna, Snakeroot, Thor-
oughwort,
Ant. Tart., Yin. Colch., Pil. Cochiae,
and Black Drop,
Tinctures of Opium, Gentian, Henbane,
Hop,
Pulv. Ipecacuai&se, which for lack
Of breath to utter men call Ipecac,
Camphor and Kino, Turpentine, Tolu,
Cubebs, " Copeevy," Vitriol white
and blue,
Fennel and Flaxseed, Slippery Elm and
Squill,
And roots of Sassafras, and "Sassaf-
rill,"
Brandy for colics Pinkroot, death
on worms
Valerian, calmer of hysteric squirms,
Musk, Assafcetida, the resinous gum
Named from its odor well, it does
smell some
Jalap, that works not wisely, but too
well,
Ten pounds of Bark and six of Calomel.
For outward griefs he had an ample
store,
Some twenty jars and gallipots, or more ;
Ceratum simplex housewives oft com-
pile
The same at home, and call it "wax
and ile " ;
Uhguentum Resinosum change its
name,
The "drawing salve" of many an an-
cient dame ;
Ar -genii Niiras, also Spanish flies,
Whose virtue makes the water-bladders
(Some say that spread upon a toper's
skin
They draw no water, only rum or gin)
Leeches, sweet vermin ! don't they
charm the sick ?
And Sticking-plaster how it hates to
stick !
Emplastru?n Ferri ditto Picis, Pitch ;
Washes and Powders, Brimstone for the
which,
282
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Scabies or Psora, is thy chosen name
Since Hahnemann's goose-quill scratched
thee into fame,
Proved thee the source of every name-
less ill,
Whose sole specific is a moonshine pill,
Till saucy Science, with a quiet grin,
Held up the Acarus, crawling on a
pin?
Mountains have labored and have
brought forth mice :
The Dutchman's theory hatched a brood
of twice
I Ve wellnigh said them words unfit-
ting quite
For these fair precincts and for ears
polite.
The surest foot may chance at last to
slip,
And so at length it proved with Doctor
Rip.
One full-sized bottle stood upon the shelf
"Which held the medicine that he took
himself ;
Whate'er the reason, it must be confessed
He filled that bottle oftener than the
rest;
"What drug it held I don't presume to
know
The gilded label said " Elixir Pro."
One day the Doctor found the bottle
full,
And, being thirsty, took a vigorous pull,
Put back the " Elixir" where 'twas
always found,
And had old Dobbin saddled and brought
round.
You know those old-time rhubarb-
colored nags
That carried Doctors and their saddle-
bags ;
Sagacious beasts ! they stopped at every
place
"Where blinds were shut knew every
patient's case
Looked up and thought the baby 's
in a fit
That won't last long he '11 soon be
through with it ;
But shook their heads before the knock -
ered door
Where some old lady told the story
o'er
Whose endless stream of tribulation
flows
For gastric griefs and peristaltic woes.
What jack-o'-lantern led him from
his way,
And where it led him, it were hard to
say;
Enough that wandering many a weary
mile
Through paths the mountain sheep trod
single file,
O'ercome by feelings such as patients
know
Who dose too freely with " Elixir Pro.,"
He tumbl dismounted, slightly in a
heap,
And lay, promiscuous, lapped in balmy
sleep.
Night followed night, and day suc-
ceeded day,
But snoring still the slumbering Doctor
lay.
Poor Dobbin, starving, thought upon
his stall,
And straggled homeward, saddle-bags
and all.
The village people hunted all around,
But Rip was missing, never could be
found.
" Drowmled," they guessed ; for more
than half a year
The pouts and eels did taste uncommon
queer ;
RHYMES OF AN HOUR.
28c
Some said of apple-brandy other some
Found a strong flavor of New England
Why can't a fellow hear the fine
things said
About a fellow when a fellow 's dead ?
The best of doctors so the press de-
clared
A public blessing while his life was
spared,
True to his country, bounteous to the
poor,
In all things temperate, sober, just, and
pure ;
The best of husbands ! echoed Mrs. Van,
And set her cap to catch another man.
So ends this Canto if it 's quan-
tum suff.y
"We 11 just stop here and say we Ve had
enough,
And leave poor Rip to sleep for thirty
years ;
I grind the organ if you lend your ears
To hear my second Canto, after that
We 11 send around the monkey with
the hat.
CANTO SECOND.
So thirty years had past but not a
word
In all that time of Rip was ever heard ;
The world wagged on it never does
go back
The widow Van was now the widow
Mac-
France was an Empire Andrew J. was
dead,
And Abraham L. was reigning in his
stead.
Four murderous years had passed in
savage strife,
Yet still the rebel held his bloody knife.
At last one morning who forgets
the day
When the black cloud of war dissolved
away ?
The joyous tidings spread o'er land and
sea,
Rebellion done for ! Grant has cap-
tured Lee !
Up every flagstaff sprang the Stars and
Stripes
Out rushed the Extras wild with mam-
moth types
Down went the laborer's hod, the school-
boy's book
"Hooraw!" he cried, "the rebel
army 's took" ! "
Ah ! what a time ! the folks all mad
with joy :
Each fond, pale mother thinking of her
boy;
Old gray-haired fathers meeting Have
you heard ?
And then a choke and not another
word ;
Sisters all smiling maidens, not less
dear,
In trembling poise between a smile and
tear ;
Poor Bridget thinking how she 11 stuff
the plums
In that big cake for Johnny when he
comes ;
Cripples afoot ; rheumatics on the jump,
Old girls so loving they could hug the
pump ;
Guns going bang ! from every fort and
ship;
They banged so loud at last they wak-
ened Rip.
I spare the picture, how a man ap-
pears
Who 's been asleep a score or two of
years ;
You all have seen it to perfection done
284
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
By Joe Van Wink I mean Rip Jeffer
son.
"Well, so it was ; old Rip at last came
back,
Claimed his old wife the present
widow Mac
Had his old sign regilded, and began
To practise physic on the same old plan.
Some weeks went by it was not
long to wait
And "please to call " grew frequent on
the slate.
He had, in fact, an ancient, mildewed
air,
A long gray beard, & plenteous lack of
hair
The musty look that always recommends
Your good old Doctor to his ailing
friends.
Talk of your science ! after all is said
There 's nothing like a bare and shiny
head ;
Age lends the graces that are sure to
please ;
Folks want their Doctors mouldy, like
their cheese.
So Rip began to look at people's
tongues
And thump their briskets (called it
"sound their lungs"),
Brushed up his knowledge smartly as he
could,
Read in old Cullen and in Doctor Good.
The town was healthy ; for a month or
two
He gave the sexton little work to do.
About the time when dog-day heats
begin,
The summer's usual maladies set in ;
"With autumn evenings dysentery came,
And dusky typhoid lit his smouldering
flame ;
The blacksmith ailed the carpenter
was down,
And half the children sickened in the
town.
The sexton's face grew shorter than be-
fore
The sexton's wife a brand-new bonnet
wore
Things looked quite serious Death had
got a grip
On old and young, in spite of Doctor
Rip.
And now the Squire was taken with
a chill
Wife gave " hot-drops " at night an
Indian pill ;
Next morning, feverish bedtime, get-
ting worse
Out of his head began to rave and
curse ;
The Doctor sent for double quick he
came :
Ant. Tart. gran, duo, and repeat the
same
If no et cetera. Third day nothing
new ;
Percussed his thorax till 'twas black
and blue
Lung-fever threatening something of
the sort
Out with the lancet let him bleed
a quart
Ten leeches next then blisters to his
side ;
Ten grains of calomel ; just then he
died.
The Deacon next required the Doc-
Took cold by sitting in a draught of
air
Pains in the back, but what the matter is
Not quite so clear, wife calls it " rheu-
matiz."
RHYMES OF AN HOUR.
285
Rubs back with flannel gives him
something hot
" Ah! "says the Deacon, "that goes
n ujh the spot."
Next day a rigor "Run, my little
man,
And say the Deacon sends for Doctor
The Doctor came percussion as before,
Thumping and banging till his ribs were
sore
" Right side the flattest " then more
vigorous raps
" Fever that 's certain pleurisy,
perhaps.
A quart of blood will ease the pain, no
doubt,
Ten leeches next will help to suck it out,
Then clap a blister on the painful part
But first two grains ofAntimonium Tart.
Last, with a dose of cleansing calomel
Unload the portal system (that sounds
well !) "
But when the selfsame remedies were
tried,
As all the village knew, the Squire had
died;
The neighbors hinted this will never
do,
He 's killed the Squire he '11 kill the
Deacon too."
Now when a doctor's patients are per-
plexed,
A consultation comes in order next
You know what that is ? In a certain
place
Meet certain doctors to discuss a case
And other matters, such as weather,
crops,
Potatoes, pumpkins, lager-beer, and
hops.
For what 's the use ? there 's little to
be said,
Nine times in ten your man 's as good as
dead ;
At best a talk (the secret to disclose)
Where three men guess and sometimes
one man knows.
The counsel summoned came without
delay
Young Doctor Green and shrewd old
Doctor Gray
They heard the story " Bleed ! " says
Doctor Green,
" That 's downright murder ! cut his
throat, you mean !
Leeches ! the reptiles ! Why, for pity's
sake,
Not try an adder or a rattlesnake ?
Blisters ! Why bless you, they 're against
the law
It 's rank assault and battery if they
draw !
Tartrate of Antimony ! shade of Luke,
Stomachs turn pale at thought of such
rebuke !
The portal system ! What 's the man
about ?
Unload your nonsense ! Calomel 's played
out!
You Ve been asleep you 'd better sleep
away
Till some one calls you."
" Stop ! " says Doctor Gray *
"The story is you slept for thirty
years ;
With brother Green, I own that it ap-
pears
You must have slumbered most amazing
sound ;
But sleep once more till thirty years
come round,
You'll find the lancet in its honored
place,
Beeches and blisters rescued from dis-
grace,
286
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Your drugs redeemed from fashion's pass-
ing scorn,
And counted safe to give to babes un-
born."
Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.,
A puzzled, serious, saddened man was he ;
Home from the Deacon's house he plod-
ded slow
And filled one bumper of " Elixir Pro."
"Good by," he faltered, "Mrs. Van,
my dear!
I 'm going to sleep, but wake me once a
year;
I don't like bleaching in the frost and
dew,
I '11 take the barn, if all the same to you.
Just once a year remember ! no mis-
take 1
Cry, * Rip Van Winkle ! time for you to
wake ! '
Watch for the week in May when lay-
locks blow,
For then the Doctors meet, and I must
go-"
Just once a year the Doctor's worthy
dame
Goes to the barn and shouts her hus-
band's name,
"Come, Rip Van Winkle ! " (giving him
a shake)
*"Rip ! Rip Van Winkle ! time for you
to wake !
Lay locks in blossom ! 't is the month of
May
The Doctors' meeting is this blessed day,
And come what will, you know I heard
you swear
You 'd never miss it, but be always
there ! "
And so it is, as every year comes round
Old Rip Van Winkle here is always
found.
You '11 quickly know him by his mil-
dewed air,
The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty
hair,
The lichens growing on his rusty suit
I 've seen a toadstool sprouting on his
boot
Who says I lie ? Does any man pre-
sume ?
Toadstool ? No matter call it a mush-
room.
Where is his seat ? He moves it every
year;
But look, you '11 find him he is always
here
Perhaps you '11 track him by a whiff you
know
A certain flavor of " Elixir Pro."
Now, then, I give you as you seem
to think
We can give toasts without a drop to
drink
Health to the mighty sleeper long
live he !
Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D. !
CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC.
BY THE PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF DEAD
AND LIVE LANGUAGES.
$ B K. CAMBRIDGE, 1867.
You bid me sing, can I forget
The classic ode of days gone by,
How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette
Exclaimed, " Anacreon, geron ei " ?
" Regardez done," those ladies said,
" You 're getting bald and wrinkled
too :
When summer's roses all are shed,
Love 's nullum ite, voyez-vous ! "
In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry,
" Of Love alone my banjo sings "
RHYMES OF AN HOUR.
287
(Erota mounon). " Etiam si,
Eh b'en ? " replied the saucy things,
" Go find a maid whose hair is gray,
And strike your lyre, we sha' n't
complain ;
But parce nobis, s'il vous plait,
Yoila Adolphe ! Yoila Eugene ! "
Ah, jeune Lisette ! Ah, belle Fifine !
Anacreon's lesson all must learn ;
'0 kairos oxus ; Spring is green,
But Acer Hyems waits his turn !
I hear you whispering from the dust,
" Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so,
The brightest blade grows dim with rust,
The fairest meadow white with snow ! "
You do not mean it ! Not encore ?
Another string of play day rhymes ?
You 've heard me nonne est ? before,
Multoties, more than twenty times ;
Non possum, vraiment, pas du tout,
I cannot ! I am loath to shirk ;
But who will listen if I do,
My memory makes such shocking
work ?
Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I *m told
Some ancients like my rusty lay,
As Grandpa Noah loved the old
Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day.
I used to carol like the birds,
But time my wits has quite unfixed,
Et quoad verba, for my words,
Ciel ! Eheu ! Whe-ew ! how they 're
mixed !
Mehercle ! Zeu ! Diable ! how
My thoughts were dressed when I was
young,
But tempus fugit ! see them now
Half clad in rags of every tongue j
philoi, fratres, chers amis !
I dare not court the youthful Muse,
For fear her sharp response should be,
" Papa Anacreon, please excuse ! "
Adieu ! I 've trod my annual track
How long ! let others count the
miles,
And peddled out my rhyming pack
To friends who always paid "in smiles.
So, laissez-moi ! some youthful wit
No doubt has wares he wants to show ;
And I am asking, " Let me sit,"
Dum ille clamat, " Dos pou sto ! "
FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER
OF THE PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER,
OR. THE LONG WHARF, APRIL 16, 1873.
DEAR friends, we are strangers ; we
never before
Have suspected what love to each other
we bore ;
But each of us all to his neighbor is dear,
Whose heart has a throb for our time-
honored pier.
As I look on each brother proprietor's
face,
I could open my arms in a loving em-
brace ;
What wonder that feelings, undreamed
of so long,
Should burst all at once in a blossom of
song!
While I turn my fond glance on the mon-
arch of piers,
Whose throne has stood firm through his
eightscore of years,
My thought travels backward and reaches
the day
When they drove the first pile on the
edge of the bay.
See ! The joiner, the shipwright, the
smith from his forge,
The redcoat, who shoulders his gun for
King George ;
288
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
The shopman, the 'prentice, the boys
from the lane,
The parson, the doctor with gold-headed
cane,
Come trooping down King Street, where
now may be seen
The pulleys and ropes of a mighty ma-
chine ;
The weight rises slowly ; it drops with
a thud ;
And, lo ! the great timber sinks deep in
the mud !
They are gone, the stout craftsmen that
hammered the piles,
And the square-toed old boys in the
three-cornered tiles ;
The breeches, the buckles, have faded
from view,
And the parson's white wig and the rib-
bon-tied queue.
The redcoats have vanished ; the last
grenadier
Stepped into the boat from the end of
our pier ;
They found that our hills were not easy
to climb,
And the order came, " Countermarch,
double-quick time ! "
They are gone, friend and foe, an-
chored fast at the pier,
Whence no vessel brings back its pale
passengers here ;
But our wharf, like a lily, still floats on
the flood,
Its breast in the sunshine, its roots in
the mud.
Who who that has loved it so long
and so well
The flower of his birthright would barter
or sell ?
No : pride of the bay, while its ripples
shall run,
You shall pass, as an heirloom, from
father to son !
Let me part with the acres my grand-
father bought,
With the bonds that my uncle's kind
legacy brought,
With my bank-shares, old " Union,"
whose ten per cent stock
Stands stiff through the storms as the
Eddystone rock ;
With my rights (or my wrongs) in the
"Erie," alas !
With my claims on the mournful and
"Mutual Mass." ;
With my " Phil. Wil. and Bait," with
my "C. B. andQ." ;
But I never, no never, will sell out of
you.
We drink to thy past and thy future to-
day,
Strong right arm of Boston, stretched
out o'er the bay.
May the winds waft the wealth of all
nations to thee,
And thy dividends flow like the waves
of the sea !
A POEM SERVED TO ORDER.
PHI BETA KAPPA, JUNE 26, 1873.
THE Caliph ordered up his cook,
And, scowling with a fearful look
That meant, We stand no gam-
mon,
" To-morrow, just at two," he said,
' ' Hassan, our cook, will lose his head,
Or serve us up a salmon."
"Great Sire," the trembling chef replied,
" Lord of the Earth and all beside,
EHYMES OF AN HOUE.
289
Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on '
(Look in Eothen r there you '11 find
A list of titles. Never mind,
I have n't time to go on :)
"Great Sire," and so forth, thus he
spoke,
" Your Highness must intend a joke ;
It does n't stand to reason
For one to order salmon brought,
Unless that fish is sometimes caught,
And also is in season.
" Our luck of late is shocking bad,
In fact, the latest catch we had
(We kept the matter shady),
But, hauling in our nets, alack !
We found no salmon, but a sack
That held your honored Lady ! "
" Allah is great ! " the Caliph said,
" My poor Zuleika, you are dead,
I once took interest in you."
"Perhaps, my Lord, you'd like to
know
We cut the lines and let her go."
"Allah be praised ! Continue."
" It is n't hard one's hook to bait,
And, squatting down, to watch and wait,
To see the cork go under ;
At last suppose you 've got your bite,
You twitch away with all your might,
You 've hooked an eel, by thunder ! "
The Caliph patted Hassan's head :
"Slave, thou hast spoken well," he said,
"And won thy master's favor.
Yes ; since what happened t' other morn
The salmon of the Golden Horn
Might have a doubtful flavor.
"That last remark about the eel
Has also justice that we feel
Quite to our satisfaction.
To-morrow we dispense with fish,
And, for the present, if you wish,
You '11 keep your bulbous fraction."
"Thanks ! thanks !" the grateful chef
replied,
His nutrient feature showing wide
The gleam of arches dental :
" To cut my head off would n't pay,
I find it useful every day,
As well as ornamental. "
Brothers, I hope you will not fail
To see the moral of my tale
And kindly to receive it.
You know your anniversary pie
Must have its crust, though hard and
dry,
And some prefer to leave it.
How oft before these youths were born
I 've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn
For what the Muse might send me !
How gayly then I cast the line, "
When all the morning sky was mine,
And Hope her flies would lend me !
And now I hear our despot's call,
And come, like Hassan, to the hall,
If there 's a slave, I am one,
My bait no longer flies, but worms !
[ 've caught Lord bless me ! how he
squirms !
An eel, and not a salmon !
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.
READ AT THE MEETING OF THE HAR-
VARD ALUMNI ASSOCIATION, JUNE 25,
1873.
THE fount the Spaniard sought in vain
Through all the land of flowers
Leaps glittering from the sandy plain
Our classic grove embowers ;
290
SONGS OF MANY SEASONS.
Here youth, unchanging, blooms and
smiles,
Here dwells eternal spring,
And warm from Hope's elysian isles
The winds their perfume bring.
Here every leaf is in the bud,
Each singing throat in tune,
And bright o'er evening's silver flood
Shines the young crescent moon.
What wonder Age forgets his staff
And lays his glasses down,
And gray-haired grandsires look and
laugh
As when their locks were brown !
With ears grown dull and eyes grown
dim
They greet the joyous day
That calls them to the fountain's brim
To wash their years away.
What change has clothed the ancient
sire
In sudden youth ? For, lo !
The Judge, the Doctor, and the Squire
Are Jack and Bill and Joe !
And be his titles what they will,
In spite of manhood's claim
The graybeard is a school-boy still
And loves his school-boy name ;
It calms the ruler's stormy breast
Whom hurrying care pursues,
And brings a sense of peace and rest,
Like slippers after shoes.
And what are all the prizes won
To youth's enchanted view ?
And what is all the man has done
To what the boy may do ?
O blessed fount, whose waters flow
Alike for sire and son,
That melts our winter's frost and snow
And makes all ages one !
I pledge the sparkling fountain's tide,
That flings its golden shower
With age to fill and youth to guide,
Still fresh in morning flower !
Flow on with ever-widening stream,
In ever-brightening morn,
Our story's pride, our future's dream,
The hope of times unborn !
A HYMN OF PEACE.
SUNG AT THE "JUBILEE," JUNE 15,
1869, TO THE MUSIC OF KELLER'S
"AMERICAN HYMN."
ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered
too long !
Spread thy white wings to the sun-
shine of love !
Come while our voices are blended in
song,
Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten
dove !
Fly to our ark on the wings of the
dove,
Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of
song,
Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland
of love,
Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too
long !
Brothers we meet, on this altar of thine
Mingling the gifts we have gathered
for thee,
Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine,
Breeze of the prairie and breath of
the sea,
Meadow and mountain and forest and
sea !
Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and
pine,
Sweeter the incense we offer to thee,
Brothers once more round this altar
of thine !
RHYMES OF AN HOUR.
291
Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain !
Hark ! a new birth-song is filling the
sky!
Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles
the main
Bid the full breath of the organ
reply,
Let the loud tempest of voices re-
piy>-
Roll its long surge like the earth-
shaking main !
Swell the vast song till it mounts to the
sky !
Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain !
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
TO 1877.
AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS.
AUGUST 29, 1859.
I REMEMBER why yes ! God bless me !
and was it so long ago ?
I fear I 'm growing forgetful, as old folks
do, you know ;
It must have been in 'forty I would
say 'thirty-nine
We talked this matter over, I and a friend
of mine.
He said "Well now, old fellow, I'm
thinking that you and I,
If we act like other people, shall be older
by and by ;
What though the bright blue ocean is
smooth as a pond can be,
There is always a line of breakers to
fringe the broadest sea.
" We 're taking it mighty easy, but that
is nothing strange,
For up to the age of thirty we spend our
years like change ;
But creeping up towards the forties, as
fast as the old years fill,
And Time steps in for payment, we seem
to change a bill.
" I know it, I said, old fellow ;
you speak the solemn truth ;
A man can't live to a hundred and like-
wise keep his youth ;
But what if the ten years coming shall
silver- streak my hair,
You know I shall then be forty; of
course I shall not care.
"At forty a man grows heavy and tired
of fun and noise ;
Leaves dress to the five-and-twenties and
love to the silly boys ;
No foppish tricks at forty, no pinching
of waists and toes,
But high-low shoes and flannels and good
thick worsted hose."
But one fine August morning I found
myself awake :
My birthday : By Jove, I 'm forty !
Yes, forty, and no mistake !
Why this is the very milestone, I think
I used to hold,
That when a fellow had come to, a fellow
would then be old !
But that is the young folks' nonsense ;
they 're full of their foolish stuff ;
A man 's in his prime at forty, I see
that plain enough ;
At fifty a man is wrinkled, and may be
bald or gray ;
/ call men old at fifty, in spite of all
they say.
At last comes another August with mist
and rain and shine ;
294
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Its mornings are slowly counted and
creep to twenty-nine,
And when on the western summits the
fading light appears,
It touches with rosy lingers the last of
my fifty years.
There have been both men and women
whose hearts were firm and bold,
But there never was one of fifty that
loved to say "I'm old" ;
So any elderly person that strives to
shirk his years,
Make him stand up at a table and try
him by his peers.
Now here I stand at fifty, my jury
gathered round ;
Sprinkled with dust of silver, but not
yet silver-crowned,
Ready to meet your verdict, waiting to
hear it told ;
Guilty of fifty summers ; speak ! Is the
verdict old ?
No ! say that his hearing fails him ; say
that his sight grows dim ;
Say that he f s getting wrinkled and weak
in back and limb,
Losing his wits and temper, but plead-
ing, to make amends,
The youth of his fifty summers he finds
in his twenty friends.
A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ.
How the mountains talked together,
Looking down upon the weather,
When they heard our friend had planned
his
Little trip among the Andes !
How they '11 bare their snowy scalps
To the climber of the Alps
When the cry goes through their passes,
" Here comes the great Agassiz ! "
" Yes, I 'm tall," says Chimborazo,
1 ' But I wait for him to say so,
That 's the only thing that lacks,
he
Must see me, Cotopaxi ! "
" Ay ! ay ! " the fire-peak thunders,
" And he 'must view my wonders !
I 'm but a lonely crater
Till I have him for spectator ! "
The mountain hearts are yearning,
The lava-torches burning,
The rivers bend to meet him,
The forests bow to greet him,
It thrills the spinal column
Of fossil fishes solemn,
And glaciers crawl the faster
To the feet of their old master I
Heaven keep him well and hearty,
Both him and all his party !
From the sun that broils and smites,
From the centipede that bites,
From the hail-storm and the thunder,
From the vampire and the condor,
From the gust upon the river,
From the sudden earthquake shiver,
From the trip of mule or donkey,
From the midnight howling monkey,
From the strok.e of knife or dagger,
From the puma and the jaguar,
From the horrid boa- con stricter
That has scared us in the pictur',
From the Indians of the Pampas
Who would dine upon their grampas,
From every beast and vermin
That to think of sets us squirming,
From every snake that tries on
The traveller his p'ison,
From every pest of Natur',
Likewise the alligator,
And from two things left behind him,
(Be sure they '11 try to find him,)
The tax- bill and assessor,
Heaven keep the great Professor !
A SEA DIALOGUE.
295
May he find, with his apostles,
That the land is full of fossils,
That the waters swarm with fishes
Shaped according to his wishes,
That every pool is fertile
In fancy kinds of turtle,
New birds around him singing,
New insects, never stinging,
With a million novel data
About the articulata,
And facts that strip off all husks
From the history of inollusks.
And when, with loud Te Deum,
He returns to his Museum,
May he find the monstrous reptile
That so long the land has kept ill
By Grant and Sherman throttled,
And by Father Abraham bottled,
(All specked and streaked and mot
tied
With the scars of murderous battles,
Where he clashed the iron rattles
That gods and men he shook at,)
For all the world to look at I
God bless the great Professor !
And Madam, too, God bless her!
Bless him and all his band,
On the sea and on the laud,
Bless them head and heart and hand,
Till their glorious raid is o'er,
And they touch our ransomed shore !
Then the welcome of a nation,
With its shout of exultation,
Shall awake the dumb creation,
And the shapes of buried aeons
Join the living creatures' paeans,
Till the fossil echoes roar ;
While the mighty megalosaurus
Leads the palaeozoic chorus,
God bless the great Professor,
And the land his proud possessor,
Bless them now and evermore !
18G5.
A SEA DIALOGUE.
Cabin Passenger. Man at Wheel.
CABIN PASSENGER.
FRIEND, you seem thoughtful. I not
wonder much
That he who sails the ocean should be sad.
I am myself reflective. When I think
Of all this wallowing beast, the Sea, has
sucked
Between his sharp, thin lips, the wedgy
waves,
What heaps of diamonds, rubies, emer-
alds, pearls ;
What piles of shekels, talents, ducats,
crowns,
What bales of Tyrian mantles, Indian
shawls,
Of laces that have blanked the weavers'
eyes,
Of silken tissues, wrought by worm and
man,
The half-starved workman, and the well-
fed worm ;
What marbles, bronzes, pictures, parch-
ments, books ;
What many-lobuled, thought-engender-
ing brains ;
Lie with the gaping sea-shells in his
maw,
f, too, am silent ; for all language seems
A mockery, and the speech of man is
vain.
mariner, we look upon the waves
And they rebuke our babbling. * ' Peace ! "
they say,
* Mortal, be still ! " My noisy tongue
is hushed,
Vnd with my trembling finger on my lips
My soul exclaims in ecstasy
MAN AT WHEEL.
Belay !
CABIN PASSENGER,
Ah yes! "Delay," it calls, "nor
haste to break
296
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
The charm of stillness with an idle
word ! "
mariner, I love thee, for thy thought
Strides even with my own, nay, flies be-
fore.
Thou art a brother to the wind and
wave ;
Have they not music for thine ear as
mine,
When the wild tempest makes thy ship
his lyre,
Smiting a cavernous basso from the
shrouds
And climbing up his gamut through the
stays,
Through buntlines, bowlines, ratlines,
till it shrills
An alto keener than the locust sings,
And all the great ^Eolian orchestra
Storms out its mad sonata in the gale ?
Is not the scene a wondrous and
MAN AT WHEEL.
CABIN PASSENGER.
Avast !
Ah yes, a vast, a vast and wondrous
scene !
I see thy soul is open as the day
That holds the sunshine in its azure
bowl
To all the solemn glories of the deep.
Tell me, mariner, dost thou never feel
The grandeur of thine office, to control
The keel that cuts the ocean like a knife
And leaves a wake behind it like a seam
In the great shining garment of the
world ?
MAN AT WHEEL.
Belay y'r jaw, y' swab ! y' hoss-marine !
(To the Captain.)
Ay, ay, Sir ! Stiddy, Sir ! Sou'wes'
b' sou* !
November 10, 1864.
AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER.
DECEMBER 15, 1874.
I SUPPOSE it 's myself that you 're making
allusion to
And bringing the sense of dismay and
confusion to.
Of course some must speak, they are
always selected to,
But pray what 's the reason that I am
expected to ?
I 'm not fond of wasting my breath as
those fellows do
That want to be blowing forever as bel-
lows do ;
Their legs are uneasy, but why will you
jog an y
That long to stay quiet beneath the ma-
hogany ?
Why, why call me up with your battery
of flatteries ?
You say "He writes poetry," that's
what the matter is !
"It costs him no trouble a pen full
of ink or two
And the poem is done in the time of a
wink or two ;
As for thoughts nevermind take the
ones that lie uppermost,
And the rhymes used by Milton and
Byron and Tupper most ;
The lines come so easy ! at one end he
jingles 'em,
At the other with capital letters he shin-
gles 'em,
Why, the thing writes itself, and before
he 's half done with it
He hates to stop writing he has such
good fun with it ! "
Ah, that is the way in which simple ones
go about
And draw a fine picture of things they
don't know about !
AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER.
297
We all know a kitten, but come to a
catamount
The beast is a stranger when grown up
to that amount,
(A stranger we rather prefer should n't
visit us,
A felis whose advent is far from felici-
tous.)
The boy who can boast that his trap has
just got a mouse
Must n't draw it and write underneath
" hippopotamus" ;
Or say unveraciously, "this is an ele-
phant "
Don't think, let me beg, these examples
irrelevant
What they mean is just this that a
thing to be painted well
Should always be something with which
we 're acquainted well.
You call on your victim for "things he
has plenty of,
Those copies of verses no doubt at least
twenty of ;
His desk is crammed full, for he always
keeps w r riting 'em
And reading to friends as his way of de-
lighting 'em ! "
I tell you this writing of verses means
business,
It makes the brain whirl in a vortex of
dizziness :
You think they are scrawled in the lan-
guor of laziness
I tell you they 're squeezed by a spasm
of craziness,
A fit half as bad as the staggering vertigos
That seize a poor fellow and down in the
dirt he goes !
And therefore it chimes with the word's
etymology
That the sons of Apollo are great on
apology,
For the writing of verse is a struggle
mysterious
And the gayest of rhymes is a matter
that 's serious.
For myself, I 'm relied on by friends in
extremities,
And I don't mind so much if a comfort
to them it is ;
'T is a pleasure to please, and the straw
that can tickle us
Is a source of enjoyment though slightly
ridiculous.
I am up for a something and since
I 've begun with it,
I must give you a toast now before I have
done with it.
Let me pump at my wits as they pumped
the Cochituate
That moistened it may be the very
last bit you ate.
Success to our publishers, authors and
editors ;
To our debtors good luck, pleasant
dreams to our creditors ;
May the monthly grow yearly, till all
we are groping for
Has reached the fulfilment we 're all of
us hoping for ;
Till the bore through the tunnel it
makes me let off a sigh
To think it may possibly ruin my proph-
ecy
Has been punned on so often 't will never
provoke again
One mild adolescent to make the old
joke again ;
Till abstinent, all -go -to -meeting so-
ciety
Has forgotten the sense of the word in-
ebriety ;
Till the work that poor Hannah and
Bridget and Phillis do
The humanized, civilized female gorillas
do ;
298
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Till the roughs, as we call them, grown
loving and dutiful,
Shall worship the true and the pure and
the beautiful,
And, preying no longer as tiger and vul-
ture do,
All read the "Atlantic" as persons of
culture do !
11 LUCY."
FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER
18, 1875.
" LUCY." The old familiar name
Is now, as always, pleasant,
Its liquid melody the same
Alike in past or present ;
Let others call you what they will,
I know you '11 let me use it ;
To me your name is Lucy still,
I cannot bear to lose it.
What visions of the past return
With Lucy's image blended !
What memories from the silent urn
Of gentle lives long ended !
What dreams of childhood's fleeting
morn,
What starry aspirations,
That filled the misty days unborn
With fancy's coruscations !
Ah, Lucy, life has swiftly sped
From April to November ;
The summer blossoms all are shed
That you and I remember ;
But while the vanished years we share
With mingling recollections,
How all their shadowy features wear
The hue of old affections !
Love called you. He who stole your
heart
Of sunshine half bereft us ;
Our household's garland fell apart
The morning that you left us ;
The tears of tender girlhood streamed
Through sorrow's opening sluices ;
Less sweet our garden's roses seemed,
Less blue its flower-de-luces.
That old regret is turned to smiles,
That parting sigh to greeting ;
I send my heart-throb fifty miles,
Through every line 't is beating ;
God grant you many and happy years,
Till when the last has crowned you
The dawn of endless day appears,
And Heaven is shining round you !
October 11, 1875.
HYMN.
FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE
OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM,
OCTOBER 7, 1875.
BEHOLD the shape our eyes have known !
It lives once more in changeless stone ;
So looked in mortal face and form
Our guide through peril's deadly storm.
But hushed the beating heart we knew,
That heart so tender, brave, and true,
Firm as the rooted mountain rock,
Pure as the quarry's whitest block !
Not his beneath the blood-red star
To win the soldier's envied scar ;
Unarmed he battled for the right,
In Duty's never-ending fight.
Unconquered will, nnslumbering eye,
Faith such as bids the martyr die,
The prophet's glance, the master's hand
To mould the work his foresight planned,
These were his gifts ; what Heaven had
lent
For justice, mercy, truth, he spent,
A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE.
299
First to avenge the traitorous blow,
And first to lift the vanquished foe.
Lo, thus he stood ; in danger's strait
The pilot of the Pilgrim State !
Too large his fame for her alone,
A nation claims him as her own !
A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE.
HEAD AT THE MEETING HELD AT MUSIC
HALL, FEBRUARY 8, 1876, IN MEMORY
OF DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE.
I.
LEADER of armies, Israel's God,
Thy soldier's tight is won !
Master, whose lowly path he trod,
Thy servant's work is done !
No voice is heard from Sinai's steep
Our wandering feet to guide ;
From Horeb's rock no waters leap ;
No Jordan's waves divide ;
No prophet cleaves our western sky
On wheels of whirling fire ;
No shepherds hear the song on high
Of heaven's angelic choir :
Yet here as to the patriarch's tent
God's angel comes a guest ;
He comes on heaven's high errand sent,
In earth's poor raiment drest.
We see no halo round his brow
Till love its own recalls,
And like a leaf that quits the bough,
The mortal vesture falls.
In autumn's chill declining day,
Ere winter's killing frost,
The message came ; so passed away
The friend our earth has lost.
Still, Father, in Thy love we trust ;
Forgive us if we mourn
The saddening hour that laid in dust
His robe of flesh outworn.
II.
How
long the wreck-strewn journey
seems
To reach the far-off past
That woke his youth from peaceful
dreams
With Freedom's trumpet-blast !
Along her classic hillsides rung
The Paynim's battle-cry,
And like a red-cross knight he sprung
For her to live or die.
No trustier service claimed the wreath
For Sparta's bravest son ;
No truer soldier sleeps beneath
The mound of Marathon ;
Yet not for him the warrior's grave
In front of angry foes ;
To lift, to shield, to help, to save,
The holier task he chose.
He touched the eyelids of the blind,
And lo ! the veil withdrawn,
As o'er the midnight of the mind,
He led the light of dawn.
He asked not whence the fountains roll
No traveller's foot has found,
But mapped the desert of the soul
Un tracked by sight or sound.
What prayers have reached the sapphire
throne,
By silent fingers spelt,
For him who first through depths un-
known
His doubtful pathway felt,
300
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Who sought the slumbering sense tha
lay
Close shut with bolt and bar,
And showed awakening thought the raj
Of reason's morning star !
Where'er he moved, his shadowy form
The sightless orbs would seek,
And smiles of welcome light and warm
The lips that could not speak.
No labored line, no sculptor's art,
Such hallowed memory needs ;
His tablet is the human heart,
His record loving deeds.
III.
The rest that earth denied is thine,
Ah, is it rest ? we ask,
Or, traced by knowledge more divine,
Some larger, nobler task ?
Had but those boundless fields of blue
One darkened sphere like this ;
But what has heaven for thee to do
In realms of perfect bliss ?
No cloud to lift, no mind to clear,
No rugged path to smooth,
No struggling soul to help and cheer,
No mortal grief to soothe !
Enough ; is there a world of love,
No more we ask to know ;
The hand will guide thy ways above
That shaped thy task below.
JOSEPH WARREN, M. D.
TRAINED in the holy art whose lifted
shield
Wards off the darts a never-slumbering
foe,
By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to
throw,
Oppression taught his helpful arm to
wield
The slayer's weapon : on the murderous
field
The fiery bolt he challenged laid him
low,
Seeking its noblest victim. Even so
The charter of a nation must be sealed !
The healer's brow the hero's honors
crowned,
From lowliest duty called to loftiest
deed.
Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples
bound ;
Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his
meed,
Last on the broken ramparts' turf to
bleed
Where Freedom's victory in defeat was
found.
June 11, 1875.
IRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-
HILL BATTLE.
AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY.
T is like stirring living embers when,
at eighty, one remembers
All the achings and the quakings of
the times that tried men's souls" ;
When I talk of Whig and Tory, when
I tell the Rebel stoiy,
To you the words are ashes, but to me
they 're burning coals.
had heard the muskets' rattle of the
April running battle ;
Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see
their red coats still ;
deadly chill comes o'er me, as the
day looms up before me,
liVTien a thousand men lay bleeding on
the slopes of Bunker's Hill.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE. 301
*T was a peaceful summer's morning,
when the first thing gave us warning
"Was the booming of the cannon from the
river and the shore :
"Child," says grandma, "what's the
matter, what is all this noise and
clatter ?
Have those scalping Indian devils come
to murder us once more ? "
Poor old soul ! my sides were shaking
in the midst of all my quaking,
To hear her talk of Indians when the
guns began to roar :
She had seen the burning village, and
the slaughter and the pillage,
When the Mohawks killed her father
with their bullets through his door.
Then I said, "Now, dear old granny,
don't you fret and worry any,
For I '11 soon come, back and tell you
whether this is work or play;
There can't be mischief in it, so I won't
be gone a minute "
For a minute then I started. I was
gone the livelong day.
No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-
glass grimacing ;
Down my hair went as I hurried, tum-
bling half-way to my heels ;
God forbid your ever knowing, when
there 's blood around her flowing,
How the lonely, helpless daughter of a
quiet household feels !
In the street I heard a thumping ; and
I knew it was the stumping
Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on
that wooden leg he wore,
With a knot of women round him, it
was lucky I had found him,
So I followed with the others, and the
Corporal marched before.
They were making for the steeple, the
old soldier and his people ;
The pigeons circled round us as we
climbed the creaking stair,
Just across the narrow river 0, so
close it made me shiver !
Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but
yesterday was bare.
Not slow our eyes to find it ; well we
knew who stood behind it,
Though the earthwork hid them from
us, and the stubborn walls were
dumb :
Here were sister, wife, and mother, look-
ing wild upon each other,
And their lips were white with terror as
they said, THE HOUR HAS COME !
The morning slowly wasted, not a mor-
sel had we tasted,
And our heads were almost splitting
with the cannons' deafening thrill,
When a figure tall and stately round
the rampart strode sedately;
It was PRESCOTT, one since told me ; he
commanded on the hill.
Every woman's heart grew bigger when
we saw his manly figure,
With the banyan buckled round it,
standing up so straight and tall ;
Like a gentleman of leisure who is
strolling out for pleasure,
Through the storm of shells and can-
non-shot he walked around the wall.
At eleven the streets were swarming, for
the red-coats' ranks were forming ;
At noon in marching order they were
moving to the piers;
How the bayonets gleamed and glistened,
as we looked far down, and listened
To the trampling and the drum-beat of
the belted grenadiers !
302
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
At length the men have started, with a
cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),
In their scarlet regimentals, with their
knapsacks on their backs,
And the reddening, rippling water, as
after a sea-fight's slaughter,
Hound the barges gliding onward
blushed like blood along their
tracks.
So they crossed to the other border, and
again they formed in order ;
And the boats came back for soldiers,
came for soldiers, soldiers still :
The time seemed everlasting to us wo-
men faint and fasting,
At last they 're moving, marching,
marching proudly up the hill.
We can see the bright steel glancing all
along the lines advancing
Now the front rank fires a volley they
have thrown away their shot ;
For behind their earthwork lying, all
the balls above them flying,
Our people need not hurry ; so they
wait arid answer not.
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he
would swear sometimes and tip-
ple), -
He had heard the bullets whistle (in the
old French war) before,
Calls out in words of jeering, just as if
they all were hearing,
And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on
the dusty belfry floor :
"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn
King George's shillin's,
But ye '11 waste a ton of powder afore
a * rebel ' falls ;
You may bang the dirt and welcome,
they 're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm
Ten foot beneath the gravestone that
you 've splintered with your balls ! "
In the hush of expectation, in the awe
and trepidation
Of the dread approaching moment, we
are wellnigh breathless all ;
Though the rotten bars are failing on
the rickety belfry railing,
We are crowding up against them like
the waves against a wall.
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they
are nearer, nearer, nearer,
When a flash a curling smoke- wreath
then a crash the steeple
shakes
The deadly truce is ended ; the tem-
pest's shroud is rended;
Like a morning mist it gathered, like a
thunder-cloud it breaks !
the sight our eyes discover as the
blue-black smoke blows over !
The red-coats stretched in windrows as
a mower rakes his hay;
Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a
headlong crowd is flying
Like a billow that has broken and is
shivered into spray.
Then we cried, "The troops are routed !
they are beat it can't be doubted !
God be thanked, the fight is over ! "
Ah ! the grim old soldier's smile !
" Tell us, tell us why you look so ? " (we
could hardly speak, we shook so),
"Are they beaten? Are they beaten?
ARE they beaten?" "Wait a
while."
the trembling and the terror ! for too
soon we saw our error :
They are baffled, not defeated ; we have
driven them back in vain ;
And the columns that were scattered,
round the colors that were tattered,
Toward the sullen silent fortress turn
their belted breasts aprain.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE. 303
All at once, as we are gazing, lo the
roofs of Charlestown blazing !
They have fired the harmless village ;
in an hour it will be down !
The Lord in heaven confound them,
rain his fire and brimstone round
them,
The robbing, murdering red-coats, that
would burn a peaceful town !
They are marching, stern and solemn ;
we can see each massive column
As they near the naked earth-mound
with the slanting walls so steep.
Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and
in noiseless haste departed ?
Are they panic-struck and helpless?
Are they palsied or asleep?
Now ! the walls they 're almost under !
scarce a rod the foes asunder !
Not a firelock flashed against them ! up
the earthwork they will swarm !
But the words have scarce been spoken,
when the ominous calm is broken,
And a bellowing crash has emptied all
the vengeance of the storm !
So again, with murderous slaughter,
pelted backwards to the water,
Fly Pigot's running heroes and the
frightened braves of Howe ;
And we shout, "At last they're done
for, it 's their barges they have run
for:
They are beaten, beaten, beaten ; and
the battle 's over now ! "
And we looked, poor timid creatures, on
the rough old soldier's features,
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew
what we would ask :
"Not sure," he said ; "keep quiet,
once more, I guess, they '11 try it
Here 's damnation to the cut-throats ! "
then he handed me his flask,
Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky;
have a drop of old Jamaiky;
I 'm afeard there '11 be more trouble afore
the job is done " ;
So I took one scorching swallow ; dread-
ful faint I felt and hollow,
Standing there from early morning when
the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had
watched a calm clock dial,
As the hands kept creeping, creeping,
they were creeping round to four,
When the old man said, "They 're form-
ing with their bagonets fixed for
storming :
It 's the death-grip that 's a coming,
they will try the works once more."
With brazen trumpets blaring, the
flames behind them glaring,
The deadly wall before them, in close
array they come ;
Still onward, upward toiling, like a
dragon's fold uncoiling,
Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning
the reverberating drum !
Over heaps all torn and gory shall I
tell the fearful story,
How they surged above the breastwork,
as a sea breaks over a deck ;
How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our
worn-out men retreated,
With their powder-horns all emptied,
like the swimmers from a wreck ?
It has all been told and painted ; as for
me, they say I fainted,
And the wooden -legged old Corporal
stumped with me down the stair :
When I woke from dreams affrighted
the evening lamps were lighted,
On the floor a youth was lying ; his
bleeding breast was bare.
304
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
And I heard through all the flurry,
"Send for WARREN ! hurry ! hurry!
Tell him here 's a soldier bleeding, and
he '11 come and dress his wound ! "
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told
its tale of death and sorrow,
How the starlight found him stiffened
on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was,
where the place from which he
came was,
Who had brought him from the battle,
and had left him at our door,
He could not speak to tell us; but
't was one of our brave fellows,
As the homespun plainly showed us
which the dying soldier wore.
For thej 7 all thought he was dying, as
they gathered round him crying,
And they said, "0, how they'll miss
him!" and, " What will his mother
do?"
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a
child's that has been dozing,
He faintly murmured, "Mother!"
and I saw his eyes were blue.
"Why, grandma, how you're wink-
ing ! " Ah, my child, it sets me
thinking
Of a story not like this one. Well, he
somehow lived along ;
So we came to know each other, and I
nursed him like a mother,
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and
rosy-cheeked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in
the pleasant summer weather ;
" Please to tell us what his name
was?" Just your own, my little
dear,
There 's his picfcrre Copley painted : we
became so well acquainted,
That in short, that 's why I 'm grand-
ma, and you children all are here !
OLD CAMBRIDGE.
JULY 3, 1875.
AND can it be you 've found a place
Within this consecrated space
That makes so fine a show
For one of Kip Van Winkle's race ?
And is it really so ?
Who wants an old receipted bill ?
Who fishes in the Frog-pond still ?
Who digs last year's potato hill ?
That 's what he 'd like to know !
And were it any spot on earth
Save this dear home that gave him birth
Some scores of years ago,
He had not come to spoil your mirth
And chill your festive glow ;
But round his baby-nest he strays,
With tearful eye the scene surveys,
His heart unchanged by changing
days,
That 's what he 'd have you know.
Can you whose eyes not yet are dim
Live o'er the buried past with him,
And see the roses blow
When white-haired men were Joe and
Jim
Untouched by winter's snow ?
Or roll the years back one by one
As Judah's monarch backed the sun,
And see the century just begun ?
That 's what he 'd like to know !
I come, but as the swallow dips,
Just touching with her feather-tips
The shining wave below,
OLD CAMBRIDGE.
305
To sit with pleasure-murmuring lips
And listen to the flow
Of Elmwood's sparkling Hippocrene,
To tread once more my native green,
To sigh unheard, to smile unseen,
That 's what I 'd have you know.
But since the common lot I 've shared
(We all are sitting " unprepared,"
Like culprits in a row,
Whose heads are down, whose necks are
bared
To wait the headsman's blow)
I'd like to shift my task to you,
By asking just a thing or two
About the good old times I knew,
Here 's what I want to know :
The yellow meetin' house can you tell
Just where it stood before it fell
Prey of the vandal foe,
Our dear old temple, loved so well
By ruthless hands laid low ?
Where, tell me, was the Deacon's pew ?
Whose hair was braided in a queue ?
(For there were pig-tails not a few,)
That 's what I 'd like to know.
The bell can you recall its clang ?
And how the seats would slam and bang ?
The voices high and low ?
The basso's trump before he sang ?
The viol and its bow ?
Where was it old Judge Winthrop sat ?
Who wore the last three-cornered hat ?
Was Israel Porter lean or fat ?
That 's what I 'd like to know.
Tell where the market used to be
That stood beside the murdered tree ?
Whose dog to church would go ?
Old Marcus Reemie, who was he ?
Who were the brothers Snow ?
Does not your memory slightly fail
About that great September gale
Whereof one told a moving tale,
As Cambridge boys should know.
When Cambridge was a simple town,
Say just when Deacon William Brown
(Last door in yonder row),
For honest silver counted down,
His groceries would bestow ?
For those were days when money meant
Something that jingled as you went,
No hybrid like the nickel cent,
I 'd have you all to know,
But quarter, ninepence, pistareen,
And fourpence happennies in between
All metal tit to show,
Instead of rags in stagnant green,
The scum of debts we owe ;
How sad to think such stuff should be
Our Wendell's cure-all recipe,
Not Wendell H., but Wendell P.,
The one you all must know !
I question but you answer not *
Dear me ! and have I quite forgot
How fivescore years ago,
Just on this very blessed spot,
The summer leaves below,
Before his homespun ranks arrayed
In green New England's elmbough shade
The great Virginian drew the blade
King George full soon should know !
George the Third ! you found it true
Our George was more than double you,
For nature made him so.
Not much an empire's crown can do
If brains are scant and slow,
Ah, not like that his laurel crown
Whose presence gilded with renown
Our brave old Academic town,
As all her children know !
So here we meet with loud acclaim
To tell mankind that here he came,
With hearts that throb and glow ;
306
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Ours is a portion of his fame
Our trumpets needs must blow !
On yonder hill the Lion fell,
But here was chipped the eagle's shell,
That little hatchet did it well,
As all the world shall know !
WELCOME TO THE NATIONS.
PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876.
BRIGHT on the banners of lily and rose
Lo ! the last sun of our century sets !
"Wreath the black cannon that scowled
on our foes,
All but her friendships the nation for-
gets !
All but her friends and their welcome
forgets !
These are around her ; but where are
her foes ?
Lo, while the sun of her century sets,
Peace with her garlands of lily and
rose !
"Welcome ! a shout like the war trumpet's
swell
Wakes the wild echoes that slumber
around !
"Welcome ! it quivers from Liberty's bell ;
"Welcome ! the walls of her temple re-
sound !
Hark ! the gray walls of her temple
resound !
Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell ;
Welcome ! still whisper the echoes
around ;
Welcome ! still trembles on Liberty's
bell!
Thrones of the continents ! isles of the
sea !
Yours are the garlands of peace we
entwine ;
Welcome, once more, to the land of the
free,
Shadowed alike by the palm and the
pine;
Softly they murmur, the palm and the
pine,
' ' Hushed is our strife, in the land of
the free " ;
Over your children their branches en-
twine,
Thrones of the continents ! isles of
the sea !
A FAMILIAR LETTER.
TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS.
YES, write, if you want to, there 's noth-
ing like trying ;
Who knows what a treasure your cas-
ket may hold ?
I '11 show you that rhyming 's as easy as
lying
If you '11 listen to me while the art I
unfold.
Here 's a book full of words ; one can
choose as he fancies,
As a painter his tint, as a workman
his tool ;
Just think ! all the poems and plays and
romances
Were drawn out of this, like the fish
from a pool !
You can wander at will through its syl-
labled mazes,
And take all you want, not a cop-
per they cost;
What is there to hinder your picking
out phrases
For an epic as clever as " Paradise
Lost" ?
Don't mind if the index of sense is at
zero,
A FAMILIAR LETTER.
307
Use words that run smoothly, what- 'T is only a photographed sketch of an
ever they mean ;
Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero
Are much the same thing in the
rhyming machine.
There are words so delicious their sweet-
ness will smother
That boarding-school flavor of which
we 're afraid,
There is "lush" is a good one, and
" swirl " is another,
Put both in one stanza, its fortune is
made.
"With musical murmurs and rhythmical
closes
You can cheat us of smiles when you 've
nothing to tell ;
You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses,
And we cry with delight, " O, how
sweet they do smell ! "
Perhaps you will answer all needful con-
ditions
For winning the laurels to which you
aspire,
By docking the tails of the two preposi-
tions
I' the style o' the bards you so greatly
admire.
As for subjects of verse, they are only
too plenty
For ringing the changes on metrical
chimes ;
A maiden, a moonbeam , a lover of twenty
Have filled that great basket with
bushels of rhymes.
Let me show you a picture 't is far
from irrelevant
By a famous old hand in the arts of
elephant,
The name of the draughtsman was
Rembrandt of Rhine.
How easy ! no troublesome colors to lay
on,
It can't have fatigued him, no, not
in the least,
A dash here and there with a hap-hazard
crayon,
And there stands the wrinkled-
skinned, baggy-limbed beast.
Just so with your verse, 't is as easy
as sketching,
You can reel off a song without knit-
ting your brow,
As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or
etching ;
It is nothing at all, if you only know
how.
"Well ; imagine you Ve printed your vol-
ume of verses :
Your forehead is wreathed with the
garland of fame,
Your poems the eloquent school-boy re-
hearses,
Her album the school-girl presents for
your name ;
Each morning the post brings you auto-
graph letters ;
You '11 answer them promptly, an
hour is n't much
For the honor of sharing a page* with
your betters,
"With magistrates, members of Con-
gress, and such.
Of course you 're delighted to serve the
committees
That come with requests from the
country all round ;
308
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
You would grace the occasion with poems
and ditties
When they 've got a new schoolhouse,
or poorhouse, or pound.
With a hymn for the saints and a song
for the sinners,
You go and are welcome wherever you
please ;
You 're a privileged guest at all manner
of dinners,
You 've a seat on the platform among
the grandees.
At length your mere presence becomes
a sensation,
Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its
brim
With the pleasure Horatian of digit-
monstration,
As the whisper runs round of " That 's
he!" or "That 's him !"
But remember, dealer in phrases sono-
rous,
So daintily chosen, so tunefully
matched,
Though you soar with the wings of the
cherubim o'er us,
The ovum was human from which you
were hatched.
No will of your own with its puny com-
pulsion
Can summon the spirit that quickens
the lyre ;
It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl's con-
vulsion
And touches the brain with a finger
of fire.
So perhaps, after all, it 's as well to be
quiet,
If you 've nothing you think is worth
saying in prose,
As to furnish a meal of their cannibal
diet
To the critics, by publishing, as you
propose.
But it 's all of no use, and I 'm sorry
I 've written,
I shall see your thin volume some day
on my shelf ;
For the rhyming tarantula surely has
bitten,
And music must cure you, so pipe it
yourself.
UNSATISFIED.
"ONLY a housemaid!" She looked
from the kitchen,
Neat was the kitchen and tidy was
she ;
There at her window a sempstress sat
stitching ;
"Were I a sempstress, how happy
I 'd be ! "
' ' Only a Queen ! " She looked over the
waters,
Fair was her kingdom and mighty was
sfie ;
There sat an Empress, with Queens for
her daughters ;
"Were I an Empress, how happy I 'd
be!"
Still the old frailty they all of them trip
in!
Eve in her daughters is ever the
same ;
Give her all Eden, she sighs for a
pippin ;
Give her an Empire, she pines for a
name !
May 8, 1876.
HOW THE OLD HOUSE WON THE BET.
309
HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE
BET.
DEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE
COLLEGIAN, 1830, TO THE EDITORS OF
THE HARVARD ADVOCATE, 1876.
'T WAS on the famous trotting-ground,
The betting men were gathered round
From far and near ; the " cracks " were
there
Whose deeds the sporting prints declare
The swift g. in., Old Hiram's nag,
The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeitfer's brag,
With these a third and who is he
That stands beside his fast b. g. ?
Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name
So fills the nasal trump of fame.
There too stood many a noted steed
Of Messenger and Morgan breed ;
Green horses also, not a few ;
Unknown as yet what they could do ;
And all the hacks that know so well
The scourgings of the Sunday swell.
Blue are the skies of opening day ;
The bordering turf is green with May ;
The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown
On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan ;
The horses paw and prance and neigh,
Fillies and colts like kittens play,
And dance and toss their rippled manes
Shining and soft as silken skeins ;
Wagons and gigs are ranged about,
And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out ;
Here stands each youthful Jehu's
dream
The jointed tandem, ticklish team !
And there in ampler breadth expand
The splendors of the four-in-hand ;
On faultless ties and glossy tiles
The lovely bonnets beam their smiles ;
(The style 's the man, so books avow ;
The style 's the woman, anyhow) ;
From flounces frothed with creamy lace
Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face,
Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye,
Or stares the wiry pet of Skye
woman, in your hours of ease
So shy with us, so free with these !
" Come on ! I '11 bet you two to one
I'll make him do it!" "Will you?
]3one ! "
What was it who was bound to do ?
1 did not hear and can't tell you,
Pray listen till my story 's through.
Scarce noticed, back behind the rest,
By cart and wagon rudely prest,
The parson's lean and bony bay
Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay
Lent to his sexton for the day ;
(A funeral so the sexton said ;
His mother's uncle's wife was dead.)
Like Lazarus bid to Dives' feast,
So looked the poor forlorn old beast ;
His coat was rough, his tail was bare,
The gray was sprinkled in his hair ;
Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not
And yet they say he once could trot
Among the fleetest of the town,
Till something cracked and broke him
down,
The steed's, the statesman's, common
lot!
" And are we then so soon forgot ?"
Ah me ! I doubt if one of you
Has ever heard the name " Old Blue,"
Whose fame through all this region rung
in those old days when I was young !
' Bring forth the horse ! " Alas ! he
showed
^"ot like the one Mazeppa rode ;
Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-
kneed,
wreck of what was once a steed,
jips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints ;
310
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
Yet not without his* knowing points.
The sexton laughing in his sleeve,
As if 't were all a make-believe,
Led forth the horse, and as he laughed
Unhitched the breeching from a shaft,
Unclasped the rusty belt beneath,
Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth,
Slipped off his head-stall, set him free
From strap and rein, a sight to see !
So worn, so lean in every limb,
It can't be they are saddling him !
It is ! his back the pig-skin strides
And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides ;
With look of mingled scorn and mirth
They buckle round the saddle-girth ;
With horsey wink and saucy toss
A youngster throws his leg across,
And so, his rider on his back,
They lead him, limping, to the track,
Far up behind the starting-point,
To limber out each stiffened joint.
As through the jeering crowd he past,
One pitying look old Hiram cast ;
" Go it, ye cripple, while ye can ! "
Cried out unsentimental Dan ;
"A Fast-Day dinner for the crows ! "
Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose.
Slowly, as when the walking-beam
First feels the gathering head of steam,
With warning cough and threatening
wheeze
The stiff old charger crooks his knees ;
At first with cautious step sedate,
As if he dragged a coach of state ;
He 's not a colt ; he knows full well
That time is weight and sure to tell ;
No horse so sturdy but he fears
The handicap of twenty years.
As through the throng on either hand
The old horse nears the judges' stand,
Beneath his jockey's feather-weight
He warms a little to his gait,
And now and then a step is tried
That hints of something like a stride.
" Go ! " Through- his ear the sum-
mons stung
As if a battle-trump had rung ;
The slumbering instincts long un-
stirred
Start at the old familiar word ;
It thrills like flame through every limb
What mean his twenty years to him ?
The savage blow his rider dealt
Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt ;
The spur that pricked his staring hide
Unheeded tore his bleeding side ;
Alike to him are spur and rein,
He steps a five-year-old again !
Before the quarter pole was past,
Old Hiram said, " He 's going fast."
Long ere the quarter was a half,
The chuckling crowd had ceased to
laugh ;
Tighter his frightened jockey clung
As in a mighty stride he swung,
The gravel flying in his track,
His neck stretched out, his ears laid
back,
His tail extended all the while
Behind him like a rat-tail file !
Off went a shoe, away it spun,
Shot like a bullet from a gun ;
The quaking jockey shapes a prayer
From scraps of oaths he used to swear ;
He drops his whip, he drops his rein,
He clutches fiercely for a mane ;
He '11 lose his hold he sways and
reels
He '11 slide beneath those trampling
heels !
The knees of many a horseman quake,
The flowers on many a bonnet shake,
And shouts arise from left and right,
" Stick on ! Stick on ! " "Hould tight !
Hould tight ! "
AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH."
311
"Cling round his neck and don't let
go
" That pace can't hold there ! steady !
whoa ! "
But like the sable steed that bore
The spectral lover of Lenore,
His nostrils snorting foam and fire,
No stretch his bony limbs can tire ;
And now the stand he rushes by,
And " Stop him ! stop him ! " is the
cry.
Stand back ! he 's only just begun
He 's having out three heats in one !
" Don't rush in front ! he '11 smash your
brains ;
But follow up and grab the reins ! "
Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,
And sprang impatient at the word ;
Budd Doble started on his bay,
Old Hiram followed on his gray,
And off they spring, and round they go,
The fast ones doing "all they know."
Look ! twice they follow at his heels,
As round the circling course he wheels,
And whirls with him that clinging boy
Like Hector round the walls of Troy;
Still on, and on, the third time round !
They 're tailing off! they 're losing
ground !
Budd Doble' s nag begins to fail !
Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail !
And see ! in spite of whip and shout,
Old Hiram's mare is giving out !
Now for the finish ! at the turn,
The old horse all the rest astern
Comes swinging in, with easy trot ;
By Jove ! he 's distanced all the lot !
That trot no mortal could explain ;
Some said, "Old Dutchman come
again ! "
Some took his time, at least they
tried,
But what it was could none decide ;
One said he could n't understand
What happened to his second hand ;
One said 2. 10 ; that could n't be
More like two twenty two or three ;
Old Hiram settled it at last ;
"The time was two too dee-vel-ish
fast!"
The parson's horse had won the bet ;
It cost him something of a sweat ;
Back in the one-horse shay he went ;
The parson wondered what it meant,
And murmured, with a mild surprise
And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,
"That funeral must have been a trick,
Or corpses drive at double-quick ;
I should n't wonder, I declare,
If brother Murray made the prayer ! "
And this is all I have to say
About the parson's poor old bay,
The same that drew the one-horse
shay.
Moral for which this tale is told :
A horse can trot, for all he 's old,
AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH."
"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall
stand ;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall."
FULL sevenscore years our city's pride
The comely Southern spire
Has cast its shadow, and defied
The storm, the foe, the fire ;
Sad is the sight our eyes behold ;
Woe to the three-hilled town,
When through the land the tale is
told
" The brave ' Old South ' is down ! "
Let darkness blot the starless dawn
That hears our children tell,
312
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
" Here rose the walls, now wrecked and
gone,
Our fathers loved so well ;
Here, while his brethren stood aloof,
The herald's blast was blown
That shook St. Stephen's pillared roof
And rocked King George's throne !
" The home-bound wanderer of the main
Looked from his deck afar,
To where the gilded, glittering vane
Shone like the evening star,
And pilgrim feet from every clime
The floor with reverence trod,
Where holy memories made sublime
The shrine of Freedom's God ! "
The darkened skies, alas ! have seen
Our monarch tree laid low,
And spread in ruins o'er the green,
But Nature struck the blow ;
No scheming thrift its downfall planned,
It felt no edge of steel,
No soulless hireling raised his hand
The deadly stroke to deal.
In bridal garlands, pale and mute,
Still pleads the storied tower ;
These are the blossoms, but the fruit
Awaits the golden shower ;
The spire still greets the morning sun,
Say, shall it stand or fall ?
Help, ere the spoiler has begun !
Help, each, and God help all !
THE FIRST FAN.
READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON
BRIC-A-BRAC CLUB, FEBRUARY 21, 1877.
WHEN rose the cry ' ' Great Pan is dead ! "
And Jove's high palace closed its por-
tal,
The fallen gods, before they fled,
Sold out their frippery to a mortal.
" To whom ? " you ask. I ask of you.
The answer hardly needs suggestion ;
Of course it was the Wandering Jew,
How could you put me such a ques-
tion ?
A purple robe, a little worn,
The Thunderer deigned himself to
offer;
The bearded wanderer laughed in
scorn,
You know he always was a scoffer.
" Vife shillins ! 't is a monstrous price ;
Say two and six and further talk
shun."
"Take it," cried Jove; "we can't be
nice,
'T would fetch twice that at Leonard's
auction."
The ice was broken ; up they came,
All sharp for bargains, god and god-
dess,
Each ready with the price to name
For robe or head-dress, scarf or bodice.
First Juno, out of temper, too,
Her queenly forehead somewhat
cloudy ;
Then Pallas in her stockings blue,
Imposing, but a little dowdy.
The scowling queen of heaven unrolled
Before the Jew a threadbare turban :
'Three shillings." "One. 'Twill suit
some old
Terrific feminine suburban."
3ut as for Pallas, how to tell
In seemly phrase a fact so shocking ?
She pointed, pray excuse me, well,
She pointed to her azure stocking.
And if the honest truth were told,
Its heel confessed the need of darning ;
THE FIRST FAN.
313
" Gods ! " low-bred Vulcan cried, " be-
hold !
There ! that 's what comes of too much
laming ! "
Pale Proserpine came groping round,
Her pupils dreadfully dilated
"With too much living underground,
A residence quite overrated ;
"This kerchief's what you want, I
know,
Don't cheat poor Venus of her ces-
tus,
You '11 find it handy when you go
To you know where ; it 's pure as-
bestus."
Then Phoebus of the silver bow,
And Hebe, dimpled as a baby,
And Dian with the breast of snow,
Chaser and chased and caught, it
may be :
One took the quiver from her back,
One held the cap he spent the night
in,
And one a bit of bric-a-brac,
Such as the gods themselves delight in.
Then Mars, the foe of human kind,
Strode up and showed his suit of ar-
mor ;
So none at last was left behind
Save Venus, the celestial charmer.
Poor Venus ! What had she to sell ?
For all she looked so fresh and jaunty,
Her wardrobe, as I blush to tell,
Already seemed but quite too scanty.
Her gems were sold, her sandals gone,
She always would be rash and
flighty,
Her winter garments all in pawn,
Alas for charming Aphrodite !
The lady of a thousand loves,
The darling of the old religion,
Had only left of all the doves
That drew her car one fan-tailed pig-
eon.
How oft upon her finger-tips
He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow,
Or kissed her on the rosebud lips,
Like Roman Lesbia's loving sparrow !
" My bird, I want your train," she cried ;
" Come, don't let 's have a fuss about
it;
I '11 make it beauty's pet and pride,
And you 11 be better off without it.
" So vulgar ! Have you noticed, pray,
An earthly belle or dashing bride walk,
And how her flounces track her way,
Like slimy serpents on the sidewalk ?
" A lover's heart it quickly cools ;
In mine it kindles up enough rage
To wring their necks. How can such
fools
Ask men to vote for woman suffrage ? "
The goddess spoke, and gently stripped
Her bird of every caudal feather ;
A strand of gold-bright hair she clipped,
And bound the glossy plumes together,
And lo, the Fan ! for beauty's hand,
The lovely queen of beauty made it ;
The price she named was hard to stand,
But Venus smiled : the Hebrew paid it.
Jove, Juno, Venus, where are you ?
Mars, Mercury, Phoebus, Neptune,
Saturn ?
But o'er the world the Wandering Jew
Has borne the Fail's celestial pattern.
So everywhere we find the Fan,
In lonely isles of the Pacific,
314
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
In farthest China and Japan,
Wherever suns are sudorific.
Nay, even the oily Esquimaux
In summer court its cooling breezes,
In fact, in every clime 't is so,
No matter if it fries or freezes.
And since from Aphrodite's dove
The pattern of the fan was given,
No wonder that it breathes of love
And wafts the perfumed gales of
heaven !
Before this new Pandora's gift
In slavery woman's tyrant kept her,
But now he kneels her glove to lift,
The fan is mightier than the sceptre.
The tap it gives how arch and sly !
The breath it wakes how fresh and
grateful !
Behind its shield how soft the sigh !
The whispered tale of shame how fate-
ful!
Its empire shadows every throne
And every shore that man is tost on ;
It rules the lords of every zone,
Nay, even the bluest blood of Boston !
But every one that swings to-night,
Of fairest shape, from farthest region,
May trace its pedigree aright
To Aphrodite's fan- tailed pigeon.
TO R. B. H.
AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT,
BOSTON, JUNE 26, 1877.
How to address him ? awkward, it is
true :
Call him "Great Father," as the Red
Men do ?
Borrow some title ? this is not the place
That christens men Your Highness and
Your Grace ;
We tried such names as these awhile,
you know,
But left them off a century ago.
His Majesty? We've had enough of
that :
Besides, that needs a crown ; he wears
a hat.
What if, to make the nicer ears content,
We say His Honesty, the President ?
Sir, we believed you honest, truthful,
brave,
When to your hands their precious trust
we gave,
And we have found you better than we
knew,
Braver, and not less honest, not less
true !
So every heart has opened, every hand
Tingles with welcome, and through all
the land
All voices greet you in one broad acclaim,
Healer of strife ! Has earth a nobler
name?
What phrases mean you do not need to
learn ;
We must be civil and they serve our
turn :
"Your most obedient humble" means
means what ?
Something the well-bred signer just is
not.
Yet there are tokens, sir, you must be-
lieve ;
There is one language never can deceive :
The lover knew it when the maiden
smiled ;
The mother knows it when she clasps
her child ;
Voices may falter, trembling lips turn
pale,
'THE SHIP OF STATE. A FAMILY RECORD.
315
Words grope and stumble ; this will tell
their tale
Shorn of all rhetoric, bare of all pretence,
But radiant, warm, with Nature's elo-
quence.
Look in our eyes ! Your welcome waits
you there,
North, South, East, West, from all and
everywhere !
"THE SHIP OF STATE."
A SENTIMENT.
THE Ship of State ! above her skies are
blue,
But still she rocks a little, it is true,
And there are passengers whose faces
white
Show they don't feel as happy as they
might ;
Yet on the whole her crew are quite
content,
Since its wild fury the typhoon has
spent,
And willing, if her pilot thinks it best,
To head a little nearer south by west.
And this they feel : the ship came too
near wreck,
In the long quarrel for the quarter-
deck,
Now when she glides serenely on her
way,
The shallows past where dread explo-
sives lay,
The stiff obstructive's churlish game to
try:
Let sleeping dogs and still torpedoes
lie !
And so I give you all the Ship of State ;
Freedom's last venture is her priceless
freight ;
God speed her, keep her, bless her, while
she steers
Amid the breakers of unsounded years ;
Lead her through danger's paths with
even keel,
And guide the honest hand that holds
her wheel !
WOODSTOCK, CONN., July 4, 1877.
A FAMILY RECORD.
WOODSTOCK, CONN., JULY 4, 1877.
NOT to myself this breath of vesper
song,
Not to these patient friends, this kindly
throng,
Not to this hallowed morning, though
it be
Our summer Christmas, Freedom's ju-
bilee,
When every summit, topmast, steeple,
tower,
That owns her empire spreads her starry
flower,
Its blood-streaked leaves in heaven's
benignant dew
Washed clean from every crimson stain
they knew
No, not to these the passing thrills be-
long
That steal my breath to hush them-
selves with song.
These moments all are memory's ; I
have come
To speak with lips that rather should
be dumb ;
For what are words ? At every step I
tread
The dust that wore the footprints of the
dead
But for whose life my life had never
known
This faded vesture which it calls its own.
Here sleeps my father's sire, and they
who gave
That earlier life here found their peace-
ful grave.
316
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
In days gone by I sought the hallowed
ground ;
Climbed yon long slope ; the sacred spot
I found
Where all unsullied lies the winter snow,
Where all ungathered Spring's pale vio-
lets blow,
And tracked from stone to stone the
Saxon name
That marks the blood I need not blush
to claim,
Blood such as warmed the Pilgrim sons
of toil,
Who held from God the charter of the
soil.
I come an alien to your hills and
plains,
Yet feel your birthright tingling in my
veins ;
Mine are this changing prospect's sun
and shade,
In full-blown summer's bridal pomp
arrayed ;
Mine these fair hillsides and the vales
between ;
Mine the sweet streams that lend their
brightening green ;
I breathed your air the sunlit land-
scape smiled ;
I touch your soil it knows its chil-
dren's child ;
Throned in my heart your heritage is
mine ;
I claim it all by memory's right divine !
Waking, I dream. Before my vacant
eyes
In long procession shadowy forms arise ;
Far through the vista of the silent years
I see a venturous band ; the pioneers,
Who let the sunlight through the for-
est's gloom,
Who bade the harvest wave, the garden
bloom.
Hark ! loud resounds the bare-armed
settler's axe,
See where the stealthy panther left his
tracks !
As fierce, as stealthy creeps the skulk-
ing foe
With stone -tipped "shaft and sinew-
corded bow ;
Soon shall he vanish from his ancient
reign,
Leave his last cornfield to the coming
train,
Quit the green margin of the wave he
drinks,
For haunts that hide the wild-cat and
the lynx.
But who the Youth his glistening axe
that swings
To smite the pine that shows a hundred
rings ?
His features ? something in his look
I find
That calls the semblance of my race to
mind.
His name ? my own ; and that which
goes before
The same that once the loved disciple
bore.
Young, brave, discreet, the father of a line
Whose voiceless lives have found a voice
in mine ;
Thinned by unnumbered currents though
they be,
Thanks for the ruddy drops I claim from
thee !
The seasons pass ; the roses come and
go;
Snows fall and melt ; the waters freeze
and flow ;
The boys are men ; the girls, grown tall
and fair,
Have found their mates ; a gravestone
here and there
Tells where the fathers lie ; the silvered
hair
A FAMILY RECORD.
317
Of some bent patriarch yet recalls the
time
That saw his feet the northern hillside
climb,
A pilgrim from the pilgrims far away,
The godly men, the dwellers by the
bay.
On many a hearthstone burns the cheer-
ful fire ;
The schoolhouse porch, the heavenward
pointing spire
Proclaim in letters every eye can read,
Knowledge and Faith, the new world's
simple creed.
Hush ! 't is the Sabbath's silence-
stricken morn :
No feet must wander through the tas-
selled corn ;
No merry children laugh around the
door,
No idle playthings strew the sanded
floor;
The law of Moses lays its awful ban
On all that stirs ; here comes the tith-
ing-man !
At last the solemn hour of worship
calls ;
Slowly they gather in the sacred walls ;
Man in his strength and age with
knotted staff,
And boyhood aching for its week-day
laugh,
The toil-worn mother with the child
she leads,
The maiden, lovely in her golden
beads,
The popish symbols round her neck she
wears,
But on them counts her lovers, not her
prayers,
Those youths in homespun suits and
ribboned queues,
Whose hearts are beating in the high-
Inu-kcd
The pastor rises ; looks along the seats
With searching eye ; each wonted face
he meets ;
Asks heavenly guidance ; finds the chap-
ter's place
That tells some tale of Israel's stubborn
race ;
Gives out the sacred song; all voices
join,
For no quartette extorts their scanty
coin ;
Then while both hands their black-
gloved palms display,
Lifts his gray head, and murmurs "Let
us pray ! "
And pray he does ! as one that never
fears
To plead unanswered by the God that
hears ;
What if he dwells on many a fact as
though
Some things Heaven knew not which it
ought to know,
Thanks God for all His favors past, and
yet,
Tells Him there 's something He must
not forget ;
Such are the prayers his people love to
hear,
See how the Deacon slants his listening
ear !
What ! look once more ! Nay, surely
there I trace
The hinted outlines of a well-known
face!
Not those the lips for laughter to beguile,
Yet round their corners lurks an embryo
smile,
The same on other lips my childhood
knew
That scarce the Sabbath's mastery could
subdue.
Him too rny lineage gives me leave to
claim,
The good, grave man that bears the
Psalmist's name.
318
ADDITIONAL POEMS.
And still in ceaseless round the sea- The same his own. Well, Israel's glo-
sons passed ;
Spring piped her carol ; Autumn blew
his blast ;
Babes waxed to manhood ; manhood
shrunk to age ;
Life's worn-out players tottered off the
stage ;
The few are many ; boys have grown to
men
Since Putnam dragged the wolf from
Pomfret's den ;
Our new-old Woodstock is a thriving
town ;
Brave are her children ; faithful to the
crown ;
Her soldiers' steel the savage redskin
knows ;
Their blood has crimsoned his Canadian
snows.
And now once more along the quiet vale
Rings the dread call that turns the
mothers pale ;
Full well they know the valorous heat
that runs
In every pulse-beat of their loyal sons ;
Who would not bleed in good King
George's cause
When England's lion shows his teeth
and claws ?
With glittering firelocks on the vil-
lage green
In proud array a martial band is seen ;
You know what names those ancient
rosters hold,
Whose belts were buckled when the
drum-beat rolled,
But mark their Captain ! tell us, who
is he ?
On his brown face that same old look I
see !
Yes ! from the homestead's still retreat
he camo,
Whose peaceful owner bore the Psalm-
ist's name ;
rious king
Who struck the harp could also whirl
the sling,
Breathe in his song a penitential sigh
And smite the sons of Amalek hip and
thigh :
These shared their task ; one deaconed
out the psalm,
One slashed the scalping hell-hounds of
Montcalm ;
The praying father's pious work is done,
Now sword in hand steps forth the
fighting son.
On many a field he fought in wilds
afar;
See on his swarthy cheek the bullet's
scar !
There hangs a murderous tomahawk ;
beneath,
Without its blade, a knife's embroidered
sheath ;
Save for the stroke his trusty weapon
dealt
His scalp had dangled at their owner's
belt;
But not for him such fate ; he lived to see
The bloodier strife that made our nation
free,
To serve with willing toil, with skilful
hand,
The war-worn saviors of the bleeding
land.
His wasting life to others' needs he
gave,
Sought rest in home and found it in the
grave.
See where the stones life's brief memo-
rials keep,
The tablet telling where he "fell on
sleep," -
Watched by a winged cherub's rayless
eye,
A scroll above that says we all must
die,
A FAMILY EECOKD.
319
Those saddening lines- beneath, the
"Night-Thoughts" lent:
So stands the Soldier's, Surgeon's monu-
ment.
Ah ! at a glance my filial eye. divines
The scholar son in those remembered
lines.
The Scholar Son. His hand my foot-
steps led.
No more the dim unreal past I tread.
thou whose breathing form was once
so dear,
Whose cheering voice was music to my
ear,
Art thou not with me as my feet pursue
The village paths so well thy boyhood
knew,
Along the tangled margin of the stream
Whose murmurs blended with thine in-
fant dream,
Or climb the hill, or thread the wooded
vale,
Or seek the wave where gleams yon dis-
tant sail,
Or the old homestead's narrowed bounds
explore,
Where sloped the roof that sheds the
rains no more,
Where one last relic still remains to tell
Here stood thy home, the memory-
haunted well,
Whose waters quench a deeper thirst
than thine,
Changed at my lips to sacramental
Art thou not with me, as I fondly trace
The scanty records of thine honored
race,
Call up the forms that earlier years have
known,
And spell the legend of each slanted
stone ?
With thoughts of thee my loving
verse began,
Not for the critic's curious eye to scan,
Not for the many listeners, but the
few
Whose fathers trod the paths my fathers
knew;
Still in my heart thy loved remem-
brance burns ;
Still to my lips thy cherished name re-
turns ;
Could I but feel thy gracious presence
near
Amid the groves that once to thee were
dear!
Could but my trembling lips with mor-
tal speech
Thy listening ear for one brief moment
reach !
How vain the dream ! The pallid voy-
ager's track
No sign betrays ; he sends no message
back.
No word from thee since evening's
shadow fell
On thy cold forehead with my long fare-
well, -
Now from the margin of the silent sea,
Take my last offering ere I cross to thee !
VEESES.
PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASS., 1824 OR 1825.
TRANSLATION FROM THE >ENEID,-Book 1.1
THE god looked out upon the troubled deep
Waked into tumult from its placid sleep ;
The flame of anger kindles in his eye
As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky ;
He lifts his head above their awful height
And to the distant fleet directs his sight,
Now borne aloft upon the billow's crest,
Struck by the bolt or by the winds oppressed,
And well he knew that Juno's vengeful ire
Frowned from those clouds and sparkled in that fire.
On rapid pinions as they whistled by
He calls swift Zephyrus and Eurus nigh :
Is this your glory in a noble line
To leave your confines and to ravage mine ?
"Whom I but let these troubled waves subside
Another tempest and I '11 quell your pride !
Go bear our message to your master's ear,
That wide as ocean I am despot here ;
Let him sit monarch in his barren caves,
I wield the trident and control the waves !
He said, and as the gathered vapors break
The swelling ocean seemed a peaceful lake ;
To lift their ships the graceful nymphs essayed
And the strong trident lent its powerful aid ;
The dangerous banks are sunk beneath the main,
And the light chariot skims the unruffled plain.
As when sedition fires the public mind,
And maddening fury leads the rabble blind,
The blazing torch lights up the dread alarm,
Rage points the steel and fury nerves the arm,
Then, if some reverend sage appear in sight,
They stand they gaze, and check their headlong flight, -
He turns the current of each wandering breast
And hushes every passion into rest,
Thus by the power of his imperial arm
The boiling ocean trembled into caftn ;
With flowing reins the father sped his way
And smiled serene upon rekindled day.
NOTES.
Page 1.
"OLD IRONSIDES."
This was the popular name by which
the frigate "Constitution" was known.
The poem was first printed in the Boston
Daily Advertiser, at the time when it was
proposed to break up the old ship as unfit
for service.
Page 3.
"THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD."
"The Goblet and the Sun" (Vas-Sol),
sculptured on a freestone slab supported
by five pillars, are the only designation of
the family tomb of the Vassalls.
Page 25.
" Thou calm, chaste scholar."
Charles Chauncy Emerson ; died May 9,
1836.
Page 26.
"And thou, dear friend."
James Jackson, Jr., M. D.; died March
28, 1834.
Page 53.
" Hark ! The sweet bells renew their wel-
come sound."
The churches referred to in the lines
which follow are,
1. " King's Chapel," the foundation of
which was laid by Governor Shirley in
1749.
2. Brattle Street Church, consecrated
in 1773. The completion of this edifice,
the design of which included a spire,
was prevented by the troubles of the
Revolution, and its plain, square tower
presents nothing more attractive than a
massive simplicity. In the front of this
tower is still seen, half imbedded in the
brick- work, a cannon-ball, which was
thrown from the American fortifications
at Cambridge, during the bombardment of
the city, then occupied by the British
troops.
3. The " Old South," first occupied for
public worship in 1730.
4. Park Street Church, built in 1809,
the tall white steeple of which is the most
conspicuous of all the Boston spires.
5. Christ Church, opened for public
worship in 1723, and containing a set of
eight bells, until of late years the only
chime in Boston.
Page 89. '
AGNES.
The story of Sir Harry Frankland
and Agnes Surraige is told in the ballad
with a very strict adhesion to the facts.
These were obtained from information
afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster
of Hopkiuton, in company with whom I
visited the Frankland Mansion in that
town, then standing ; from a very interest-
ing Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason
of Medford, not yet published ; and from
the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more
properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland,
now in the library of the Massachusetts
Historical Society.
At the time of the visit referred to, old
322
NOTES.
Julia was living, and on our return we
called at the house where she resided. 1
Her account is little more than paraphrased
in the poem. If the incidents are treated
with a certain liberality at the close of the
fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes
rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the
earthquake, and their subsequent marriage
as related, may be accepted as literal truth.
So with regard to most of the trilling de-
tails which are given ; they are taken from
the record,
It is to be hoped that the Kev. Mr.
Nason's Memoir will be published, that
this extraordinary romance of our sober
New England life may become familiar to
that class of readers who prefer a rigorous
statement to an embellished narrative. It
will be found to contain many historical
facts and allusions which add much to its
romantic interest.
It is greatly to be regretted that the
Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It
was accidentally burned on the 23d of
January, 1858, a year or two after the first
sketch of this ballad was written. A visit
to it was like stepping out of the century
into the years before the Revolution. A
new house, similar in plan and arrange-
i She was living June 10, 1861, when this
ballad was published.
ments to the old one, has been built upon
its site, and the terraces, the clump of
box, and the lilacs, doubtless remain to
bear witness to the truth of this story.
Since the above note was written the
Rev. Mr. Nason's interesting Memoir of
Sir Harry Frankland has been published.
Page 300.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL
BATTLE.
" They 're as safe as Dan' I Malcolm."
The following epitaph is still to be read
on a tall gravestone standing as yet un-
disturbed among the transplanted monu-
ments of the dead in Copp's Hill Burial-
ground, one of the three city cemeteries
which have been desecrated and ruined
within my own remembrance :
" Here lies buried in a
Stone Grave 10 feet deep,
Cap* DANIEL MALCOLM Mercht
Who departed this Life
October 23d, 1769,
Aged 44 years,
a true son of Liberty,
a Friend to the Publick,
an Enemy to oppression,
and one of the foremost
in opposing the Revenue Acts
on America."
THE END.
Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
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