The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Complete

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Title: The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes — Complete

Author: Oliver Wendell Holmes

Release date: September 30, 2004 [eBook #7400]

Most recently updated: December 30, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES — COMPLETE ***

Produced by David Widger

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

[1893 three volume set]

CONTENTS:

TO MY READERS

EARLIER POEMS (1830-1836).

OLD IRONSIDES

THE LAST LEAF

THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD

TO AN INSECT

THE DILEMMA

MY AUNT

REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN

DAILY TRIALS, BY A SENSITIVE MAN

EVENING, BY A TAILOR

THE DORCHESTER GIANT

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY"

THE COMET

THE Music-GRINDERS

THE TREADMILL SONG

THE SEPTEMBER GALE

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

THE LAST READER

POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY

ADDITIONAL POEMS (1837-1848): THE PILGRIM'S VISION THE STEAMBOAT LEXINGTON ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL A SONG FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD COLLEGE, THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG DEPARTED DAYS THE ONLY DAUGHTER SONG WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES DICKENS, BY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEBRUARY 1, 1842 LINES RECITED AT THE BERKSHIRE JUBILEE NUX POSTCOENATICA VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER A MODEST REQUEST, COMPLIED WITH AFTER THE DINNER AT PRESIDENT EVERETT'S INAUGURATION THE PARTING WORD A SONG OF OTHER DAYS SONG FOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH LADIES WERE INVITED (NEW YORK MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, NOVEMBER, 1842) A SENTIMENT A RHYMED LESSON (URANIA) AN AFTER-DINNER POEM (TERPSICHORE)

MEDICAL POEMS: THE MORNING VISIT THE TWO ARMIES THE STETHOSCOPE SONG EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM A POEM FOR THE MEETING OF THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION AT NEW YORK, MAY 5, 1853 A SENTIMENT RIP VAN WINKLE, M. D.

SONGS IN MANY KEYS (1849-1861) PROLOGUE AGNES THE PLOUGHMAN SPRING THE STUDY THE BELLS NON-RESISTANCE THE MORAL BULLY THE MIND'S DIET OUR LIMITATIONS THE OLD PLAYER A POEM DEDICATION OF THE PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, SEPTEMBER 9,1850 TO GOVERNOR SWAIN TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND AFTER A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY AT THE CLOSE OF A COURSE OF LECTURES THE HUDSON THE NEW EDEN SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22,1855 FAREWELL TO J. R. LOWELL FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB, 1856 ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER THE VOICELESS THE TWO STREAMS THE PROMISE AVIS THE LIVING TEMPLE AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL: TO J. R. LOWELL A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE TO J. F. CLARKE THE GRAY CHIEF THE LAST LOOK: W. W. SWAIN IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR. MARTHA MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE THE PARTING SONG FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY ASSOCIATION FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS BOSTON COMMON: THREE PICTURES THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA INTERNATIONAL ODE VIVE LA FRANCE BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE

NOTES

[Volume 2 of the 1893 three volume set]

CONTENTS:

POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29 (1851-1889)

BILL AND JOE

A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE"

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

AN IMPROMPTU

THE OLD MAN DREAMS

REMEMBER—FORGET

OUR INDIAN SUMMER

MARE RUBRUM

THE Boys

LINES

A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH

J. D. R.

VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION

"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE"

F. W. C.

THE LAST CHARGE

OUR OLDEST FRIEND

SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH

MY ANNUAL

ALL HERE

ONCE MORE

THE OLD CRUISER

HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING

EVEN-SONG

THE SMILING LISTENER

OUR SWEET SINGER: J. A.

H. C. M., H. S., J. K. W.

WHAT I HAVE COME FOR

OUR BANKER

FOR CLASS-MEETING

"AD AMICOS"

HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT

THE LAST SURVIVOR

THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS

THE SHADOWS

BENJAMIN PEIRCE

IN THE TWILIGHT

A LOVING-CUP SONG

THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP

THE LYRE OF ANACREON

THE OLD TUNE

THE BROKEN CIRCLE

THE ANGEL-THIEF

AFTER THE CURFEW

POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1857-1858)

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

SUN AND SHADOW

MUSA

A PARTING HEALTH: To J. L. MOTLEY

WHAT WE ALL THINK

SPRING HAS COME

PROLOGUE

LATTER-DAY WARNINGS

ALBUM VERSES

A GOOD TIME GOING!

THE LAST BLOSSOM

CONTENTMENT

AESTIVATION

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSE SHAY"

PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY; OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER

POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1858-1859) UNDER THE VIOLETS HYMN OF TRUST A SUN-DAY HYMN THE CROOKED FOOTPATH IRIS, HER BOOK ROBINSON OF LEYDEN ST ANTHONY THE REFORMER THE OPENING OF THE PIANO MIDSUMMER DE SAUTY

POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1871-1872) HOMESICK IN HEAVEN FANTASIA AUNT TABITHA WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE SERIES

SONGS OF MANY SEASONS (1862-1874) OPENING THE WINDOW PROGRAMME

IN THE QUIET DAYS AN OLD-YEAR SONG DOROTHY Q: A FAMILY PORTRAIT THE ORGAN-BLOWER AT THE PANTOMIME AFTER THE FIRE A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY NEARING THE SNOW-LINE

IN WAR TIME TO CANAAN: A PURITAN WAR-SONG "THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS" NEVER OR NOW ONE COUNTRY GOD SAVE THE FLAG! HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN ARMY HYMN PARTING HYMN THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY THE SWEET LITTLE MAN UNION AND LIBERTY

SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL

AMERICA TO RUSSIA

WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBASSY

AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE EMBASSY

BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ

AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT

AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT

To H W LONGFELLOW

To CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG

A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS

MEMORIAL VERSES FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, BOSTON, 1865 FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES, CAMBRIDGE JULY 21, 1865 EDWARD EVERETT: JANUARY 30, 1865 SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, APRIL 23, 1864 IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT WARE, MAY 25, 1864 HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY: CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEMBER 14, 1869 POEM AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869 HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF HARVARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, OCTOBER 6, 1870 HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, 1874 HYMN AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874

RHYMES OF AN HOUR

ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, N. Y. 1873

A SEA DIALOGUE

CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC

FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER, PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, 1873

A POEM SERVED TO ORDER

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

No TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

A HYMN OF PEACE, TO THE MUSIC OF KELLER'S "AMERICAN HYMN"

NOTES

[Volume 3 of the 1893 three volume set]

CONTENTS

BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AND OTHER POEMS

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER, DECEMBER 15, 1874

"LUCY." FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875

HYMN FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM,

OCTOBER 7, 1875

A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE

JOSEPH WARREN, M. D.

OLD CAMBRIDGE, JULY 3, 1875

WELCOME TO THE NATIONS, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876

A FAMILIAR LETTER

UNSATISFIED

HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET

AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH"

THE FIRST FAN

To R. B. H.

THE SHIP OF STATE

A FAMILY RECORD

THE IRON GATE AND OTHER POEMS. THE IRON GATE VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM MY AVIARY ON THE THRESHOLD TO GEORGE PEABODY AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY TWO SONNETS: HARVARD THE COMING ERA IN RESPONSE FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION THE SCHOOL-BOY THE SILENT MELODY OUR HOME—OUR COUNTRY POEM AT THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY RHYMES OF A LIFE-TIME

BEFORE THE CURFEW AT MY FIRESIDE AT THE SATURDAY CLUB OUR DEAD SINGER. H. W. L. TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. I. AT THE SUMMIT II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE BLIND BOSTON TO FLORENCE AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL, MARCH 8, 1882 POEM FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF HARVARD COLLEGE POST-PRANDIAL: PHI BETA KAPPA, 1881 THE FLANEUR: DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENUS, 1882 AVE KING'S CHAPEL READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY HYMN FOR THE SAME OCCASION HYMN.—THE WORD OF PROMISE HYMN READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT HUDSON, WISCONSIN, JUNE 7, 1887 ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD THE GOLDEN FLOWER HAIL, COLUMBIA! POEM FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S JAMES RUSSELL LO WELL: 1819-1891

POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS. TO THE ELEVEN LADIES WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET CACOETHES SCRIBENDI THE ROSE AND THE FERN I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU LA MAISON D'OR BAR HARBOR TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES TARTARUS AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD INVITA MINERVA

READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS TO MY OLD READERS THE BANKER'S SECRET THE EXILE'S SECRET THE LOVER'S SECRET THE STATESMAN'S SECRET THE MOTHER'S SECRET THE SECRET OF THE STARS

VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO FIRST VERSES: TRANSLATION FROM THE THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR THE TOADSTOOL THE SPECTRE PIG TO A CAGED LION THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE: "A SPANISH GIRL REVERIE" A ROMAN AQUEDUCT FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL LA GRISETTE OUR YANKEE GIRLS L'INCONNUE STANZAS LINES BY A CLERK THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE THE POET'S LOT TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN" IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN A NOONTIDE LYRIC THE HOT SEASON A PORTRAIT AN EVENING THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT SEA THE WASP AND THE HORNET "QUI VIVE?"

NOTES

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?

O 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,—

I 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 tenderest tone;

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.

EARLIER POEMS

1830-1836 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. I subjoin the paragraph which led to the writing of the poem. It is from the Advertiser of Tuesday, September 14, 1830:—

"Old Ironsides.—It has been affirmed upon good authority that the Secretary of the Navy has recommended to the Board of Navy Commissioners to dispose of the frigate Constitution. Since it has been understood that such a step was in contemplation we have heard but one opinion expressed, and that in decided disapprobation of the measure. Such a national object of interest, so endeared to our national pride as Old Ironsides is, should never by any act of our government cease to belong to the Navy, so long as our country is to be found upon the map of nations. In England it was lately determined by the Admiralty to cut the Victory, a one-hundred gun ship (which it will be recollected bore the flag of Lord Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar,) down to a seventy-four, but so loud were the lamentations of the people upon the proposed measure that the intention was abandoned. We confidently anticipate that the Secretary of the Navy will in like manner consult the general wish in regard to the Constitution, and either let her remain in ordinary or rebuild her whenever the public service may require."—New York Journal of Commerce.

The poem was an impromptu outburst of feeling and was published on the next day but one after reading the above paragraph.

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!

Oh 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

This poem was suggested by the appearance in one of our streets of a venerable relic of the Revolution, said to be one of the party who threw the tea overboard in Boston Harbor. He was a fine monumental specimen in his cocked hat and knee breeches, with his buckled shoes and his sturdy cane. The smile with which I, as a young man, greeted him, meant no disrespect to an honored fellow-citizen whose costume was out of date, but whose patriotism never changed with years. I do not recall any earlier example of this form of verse, which was commended by the fastidious Edgar Allan Poe, who made a copy of the whole poem which I have in his own handwriting. Good Abraham Lincoln had a great liking for the poem, and repeated it from memory to Governor Andrew, as the governor himself told me.

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,

And a crook is in his back,

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;—

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

The Katydid is "a species of grasshopper found in the United States, so called from the sound which it makes."—Worcester. I used to hear this insect in Providence, Rhode Island, but I do not remember hearing it in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where I passed my boyhood. It is well known in other towns in the neighborhood of Boston.

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?

Oh 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?

I warrant Katy did no more

Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about

My fuss with little Jane,

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;

I know it hurts her,—though she looks

As cheerful as she can;

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 I 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;—

Oh 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, ungathered rose

On my ancestral tree.

REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN

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 numbers,

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 me!

DAILY TRIALS

BY A SENSITIVE MAN

OH, 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 caterwaul,

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 paternal ass;

Peripatetics with a blade of grass

Between their thumbs.

Vagrants, whose arts

Have caged some devil in their mad machine,

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 despair,

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 descending robe!

The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,

Do make a music like to rustling satin,

As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

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 surtout.

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?

Oh no, it is that other gentle bird,

Which is the patron of our noble calling.

I 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 ambition.

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,—oh, 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 silence.

Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,

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

The "pudding-stone" is a remarkable conglomerate found very abundantly in the towns mentioned, all of which are in the neighborhood of Boston. We used in those primitive days to ask friends to ride with us when we meant to take them to drive with us.

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;

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?

Oh, 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 'll 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 ATHENAEUM 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 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 cracked 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! Oh fearful 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, oh, 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.

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'll 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, the 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.

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 work 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

This tremendous hurricane occurred on the 23d of September, 1815. I remember it well, being then seven years old. A full account of it was published, I think, in the records of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Some of my recollections are given in The Seasons, an article to be found in a book of mine entitled Pages from an Old Volume of Life.

I'M not a chicken; I have seen

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 rivers 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! Oh my breeches!"

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 I 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'll 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,

Nor deem that flattery's needless wile

My opening bosom wrongs;

For who would trample, at my side,

A few pale buds, 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 PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, AUGUST, 1836

TO CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, THE FOLLOWING METRICAL ESSAY IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

This Academic Poem presents the simple and partial views of a young person trained after the schools of classical English verse as represented by Pope, Goldsmith, and Campbell, with whose lines his memory was early stocked. It will be observed that it deals chiefly with the constructive side of the poet's function. That which makes him a poet is not the power of writing melodious rhymes, it is not the possession of ordinary human sensibilities nor even of both these qualities in connection with each other. I should rather say, if I were now called upon to define it, it is the power of transfiguring the experiences and shows of life into an aspect which comes from his imagination and kindles that of others. Emotion is its stimulus and language furnishes its expression; but these are not all, as some might infer was the doctrine of the poem before the reader.

A common mistake made by young persons who suppose themselves to have the poetical gift is that their own spiritual exaltation finds a true expression in the conventional phrases which are borrowed from the voices of the singers whose inspiration they think they share.

Looking at this poem as an expression of some aspects of the ars poetica, with some passages which I can read even at this mature period of life without blushing for them, it may stand as the most serious representation of my early efforts. Intended as it was for public delivery, many of its paragraphs may betray the fact by their somewhat rhetorical and sonorous character.

SCENES of my youth! awake its slumbering 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 unrolled,

To greet the land-breeze with its faded fold,

So, in remembrance of my boyhood's time,

I lift these ensigns of neglected rhyme;

Oh, more than blest, that, all my wanderings 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 reflected 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 entangled 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,

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 sparkling 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 AEgis 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

The vote that shakes the turret 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 chandelier;

E'en trembling age, when Spring's renewing 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, unenbalmed, the silent dreamer dies,

His memory passing with his smiles and sighs!

If glorious visions, born for all mankind,

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 woes.

When, schooled by time, the stately queen of art

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 profane

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,

Rings 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 succession 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 expanded 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 trailing bow

With pallid leaves that sweep the soil below;

When the broad elm, sole empress of the plain,

Whose circling shadow speaks a century's reign,

Wreathes in the clouds her regal diadem,—

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 bowers,—

These, and their guardians, who, with liquid names,

Strephons and Chloes, melt in mutual flames,

Woo the young Muses from their mountain 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!

Oh happiest they, whose early love unchanged,

Hopes undissolved, and friendship unestranged,

Tired of their wanderings, still can deign to see

Love, hopes, and friendship, centring all in thee!

And thou, my village! as again I tread

Amidst thy living and above thy dead;

Though some fair playmates guard with charter 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 memory 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 simple 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 flattering 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 ungracious 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.

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 mountain pines

Rose a new forest o'er embattled lines;

The bloodless sickle lent the warrior's steel,

The harvest bowed beneath his chariot wheel;

Where late the wood-dove sheltered her repose

The raven waited for the conflict's close;

The cuirassed sentry walked his sleepless round

Where Daphne smiled or Amaryllis frowned;

Where timid minstrels sung their blushing charms,

Some wild Tyrtaeus called aloud, "To arms!"

When Glory wakes, when fiery spirits leap,

Roused by her accents from their tranquil sleep,

The ray that flashes from the soldier's crest

Lights, as it glances, in the poet's breast;—

Not in pale dreamers, whose fantastic lay

Toys with smooth trifles like a child at play,

But men, who act the passions they inspire,

Who wave the sabre as they sweep the lyre!

Ye mild enthusiasts, whose pacific frowns

Are lost like dew-drops caught in burning towns,

Pluck as ye will the radiant plumes of fame,

Break Caesar'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 gathering 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 slumbering 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 walls gleaming through the vines of France,

And all was hushed, save where the footsteps fell,

On some high tower, of midnight sentinel.

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 children's shame

Streamed o'er his memory like a forest's flame;

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 laughing land;

While France ships outward her reluctant 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 soldier'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 displays,

Her marshalled legions peal the Marseillaise;

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 sprightliness,

Hear an old song, which some, perchance, 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 country's tides

Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Ironsides

From yon lone attic, on a smiling morn,

Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn.

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

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 conflict'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 more!"

Thus live undying through the lapse of time

The solemn legends of the warrior's clime;

Like Egypt's pyramid or Paestum'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 embroidered frieze,

And Isis sleeps beneath her subject Nile,

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 romance,

That roused a nation for a woman's glance;

The age of mystery, with its hoarded power,

That girt the tyrant in his storied tower,

Have passed and faded like a dream of youth,

And riper eras ask for history's truth.

On other shores, above their mouldering 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 glories 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 Thermopylae"!

Where'er the battles of the brave are won,

There every mountain "looks on Marathon"!

Our fathers live; they guard in glory still

The grass-grown bastions of the fortressed hill;

Still ring the echoes of the trampled gorge,

With God and Freedom. England and Saint George!

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 bayonet's shock,

Their only corselet was the rustic frock;

Say, when they mustered to the gathering horn,

The titled chieftain curled his lip in scorn,

Yet, when their leader bade his lines advance,

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 patriot'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 Washington!

IV.

But once again, from their AEolian 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 source.

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 deathless reign.

Thus lives Medea, in our tamer age,

As when her buskin pressed the Grecian stage;

Not in the cells where frigid learning delves

In Aldine folios mouldering on their shelves,

But breathing, burning in the glittering throng,

Whose thousand bravoes roll untired along,

Circling and spreading through the gilded halls,

From London's galleries to San Carlo's walls!

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, unconfined 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 mysteries;

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 bridal 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 Gorgon 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,

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 begin;—

The dull disease, which drains their feeble hearts,

To life's decay some hectic thrill's imparts,

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 right 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 admire,

Though false its notes, the pale enthusiast'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, envenomed 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 despair!

Not such were they whom, wandering 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

How nice the mind that sculptured them with thought,

And triumph glistening in the clear blue eye,

Too bright to live,—but oh, 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

Since thou wast laid its budding leaves below,

Thine image mingles with my closing strain,

As when we wandered by the turbid Seine,

Both blessed 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 bays,

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?

Have such e'er been? Remember Canning'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.

One leap of Ocean scatters on the sand

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,

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!

"O 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 lips 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

SEE how yon 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 flowers,

With heaped and glistening bells,

Falls round her fast, in ringing showers,

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,

Oh 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 children 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.

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 thunder-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 main.

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 "punch-bowl" was, according to old family tradition, a caudle-cup. It is a massive piece of silver, its cherubs and other ornaments of coarse repousse work, and has two handles like a loving-cup, by which it was held, or passed from guest to guest.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times,

Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,

Who 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 filled with candle 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 Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.

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 Standish 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, 't will do you good,—poor child,

you'll 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.

'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 bauble 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

This song, which I had the temerity to sing myself (felix auda-cia, Mr. Franklin Dexter had the goodness to call it), was sent in a little too late to be printed with the official account of the celebration. It was written at the suggestion of Dr. Jacob Bigelow, who thought the popular tune "The Poacher's Song" would be a good model for a lively ballad or ditty. He himself wrote the admirable Latin song to be found in the record of the meeting.

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;

Oh 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 rams 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 his 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 hominy

Were smoking on the board;

They did not rattle round in gigs,

Or dash in long-tailed 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 island referred to is a domain of princely proportions, which has long been the seat of a generous hospitality. Naushon is its old Indian name. William Swain, Esq., commonly known as "the Governor," was the proprietor of it at the time when this song was written. Mr. John M. Forbes is his worthy successor in territorial rights and as a hospitable entertainer. The Island Book has been the recipient of many poems from visitors and friends of the owners of the old mansion.

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 'll 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.

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;

Oh 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, FEBRUARY 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,

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 JUBILEE, PITTSFIELD, MASS., AUGUST 23, 1844

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 must n'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 blossoms 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;

Oh, 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,

Till, sated with rapture, he 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, is n't it PRIME!"

Oh, 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'll give you at least

A bite at an apple, a seat on the grass,

And the best of old—water—at nothing a glass.

NUX POSTCOENATICA

I 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 experiments on me.

They have a certain heartiness that frequently 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'm getting lots of change.

Besides—my prospects—don't you know that people won't employ

A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy?

And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds 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 without the slightest question

If eating words won't compromise the organs of digestion!

And yet, among my native shades, beside my nursing mother,

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, the 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 PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY, 1844

I WAS thinking last night, as I sat in the cars,

With the charmingest prospect of cinders 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 wrinkle your brow,

But you're up on your legs, and you're in for it now.

Oh think of your friends,—they are waiting to hear

Those jokes that are thought so remarkably queer;

And all the Jack Horners 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.

Oh pardon me, then, if I meekly retire,

With a very small flash of ethereal fire;

No rubbing will kindle your Lucifer match,

If the fiz 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,

I 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;

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 freedom excuse,

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 pectoral 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'll be missed;

But that one little tidbit he cannot resist;

So your bait may be swallowed, no matter how fast,

For you catch your next fish with a piece of the last.

And thus, O survivor, whose merciless fate

Is to take the next hook with the president'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 AEthiop, whispers, "Hush, oh hush!"

Delightful scene! where smiling comfort broods,

Nor business frets, nor anxious care intrudes;

O si sic omnia I were it ever so!

But what is stable in this world below?

Medio e fonte,—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,

Can keep out death, the postman, or the bore.

Oh for a world where peace and silence reign,

And blunted dulness verebrates in vain!

—The door-bell jingles,—enter Richard Fox,

And takes this letter from his leathern box.

"Dear Sir,—

In writing on a former day,

One little matter I forgot to say;

I 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 festive 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 mellifluous song;

Yours the quaint trick to cram the pithy line

That cracks so crisply over bubbling wine;

And since success your various gifts attends,

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'll try,

Or punch, or toddy, if perhaps you're dry?

Ah, said the sailor, though I can't refuse,

You know, my lady, 't ain't for me to choose;

I'll 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 dismay

—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 you like Homer learn to write and speak,

That bench is groaning with its weight of Greek;

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 tracks old 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 present 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 ascending 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 unfurled

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,

To see her ankles red with gold,

Her forehead white with pearls.

"Who gave to thee the glittering bands

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. Oh tell me, ye who thoughtless 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 Australian throws,

Your verbal boomerang slaps you on the nose.

One vague inflection spoils the whole with doubt,

One trivial letter ruins all, left 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

Oh, 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 glorious John,

Who wrote the book we all have pondered 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 midnight tower,

Whose lamp burns brightest when the tempests lower.

Oh, who can tell with what a leaden flight

Drag the long watches of his weary night,

While at his feet the hoarse and blinding 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!

But still he pleads with unavailing cry,

Behold the light, O wanderer, look or die!

A health, fair Themis! Would the enchanted vine

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,

Where men sought justice ere they brushed their boots;

And what can match, to solve a learned doubt,

The warmth within that comes from "cold with-out"?

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 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, O 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, "Oh, how can I forget!"

Men and devils both contrive

Traps for catching girls alive;

Eve was duped, and Helen kissed,—

How, oh 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;

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 fine,

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, oh 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!

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, NOVEMBER, 1842)

A HEALTH to dear woman! She bids us untwine,

From the cup it encircles, the fast-clinging 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 forehead of flame.

Alas for the loved one! too spotless and fair

The joys of his banquet 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 bacchanal'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.

'T is 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,

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 (URANIA)

This poem was delivered before the Boston Mercantile Library

Association, October 14, 1846.

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,

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!

I know myself. Not servile for applause,

My Muse permits no deprecating clause;

Modest or vain, she will not be denied

One bold confession due to honest pride;

And well she knows the drooping veil of song

Shall save her boldness from the caviller'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 maternal pains,

She loads her arms with rhyme's resounding 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 buffoon;

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 banquet'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 tickling straw?

Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling spear

The pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome here?

No! while I wander through the land of dreams,

To strive with great and play with trifling 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 on 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 awakening fire?

Oh, who forgets when first the piercing thought

Through childhood's musings found its way unsought?

I AM;—I LIVE. The mystery and the fear

When the dread question, WHAT HAS BROUGHT ME HERE?

Burst through life's twilight, as before the sun

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?

Oh, could such mockery reach our souls indeed,

Give back the Pharaohs' or the Athenian's creed;

Better than this a Heaven of man's device,—

The Indian's sports, the Moslem's paradise!

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 upward 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 reprove

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 primeval 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 supreme,

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 quickening void!

Nor this alone; a larger gift was thine,

A mightier purpose swelled his vast design

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'erarching 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 estate;

Thou hast a choice; to choose is to create!

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 changeful tide,

To breast its waves, but not without a guide;

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 ethereal arch;

Tells through the mist where dazzled Mercury burns,

And marks the spot where Uranus returns.

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 expanse of night.

"What is thy creed?" a hundred lips inquire;

"Thou seekest God beneath what Christian spire?"

Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies

Float upward on the smoke of sacrifice;

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 without

Oh 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 destroying 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 sexton 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 proclaim

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 welcome 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,

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 quivering thrill

Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill;

Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire,

Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern 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 ancient song,

But tears still follow as they breathe along.

Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range

Where man and nature, faith and customs change,

Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone

Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone.

When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed 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 monsoon;

When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings,

And thy poor sea-bird 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 cheering fire,

The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire,

The mother's kiss, and, still if aught remain,

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 deceitful 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

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 cashmere.

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.

Trust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile

Thy saddened features of the promised smile.

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 deride?

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 crucifix,

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;

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-citizens.

Be firm! One constant element in luck

Is genuine solid old Teutonic pluck.

See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill,

Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise 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 nature 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.

Shun such as lounge through afternoons 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 unwelcome tale

Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale;

Health is a subject for his child, his wife,

And the rude office that insures his life.

Look in his face, to meet thy neighbor's soul,

Not on his garments, to detect a hole;

"How to observe" is what thy pages show,

Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Martineau!

Oh, 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 undefined,

Rush at each other, make a sudden stand,

Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand;

Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely 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, retire;

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 barnyard down;

Rich, 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 try 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 employed

To speak of errors we can all avoid.

Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope

The careless lips that speak of so'ap for soap;

Her edict exiles from her fair abode

The clownish voice that utters ro'ad for road

Less stern to him who calls his coat a co'at,

And steers his boat, believing it a bo'at,

She pardoned one, our classic city's boast,

Who said at Cambridge mo'st instead of most,

But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot

To hear a Teacher call a root a ro'ot.

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 burs,

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 reveal,—

We guess the pulp before we cut the peel.

I leave the broadcloth,—coats and all the rest,—

The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys "vest,"

The things named "pants" in certain documents,

A word not made for gentlemen, but "gents;"

One single precept might the whole condense

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 demands,

If polished daily by the owner's hands;

If the dark menial's visit save from this,

Have twice the number,—for he 'll sometimes miss.

One pair for critics of the nicer sex,

Close in the instep's clinging circumflex,

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 caoutchoue, no deformed brogan,

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 always 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.

The stately neck is manhood's manliest 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 ear;

I know the points will sometimes interfere;

I know that often, like the filial John,

Whom sleep surprised with half his drapery on,

You show your features to the astonished town

With one side standing and the other down;—

But, O, 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 protruding chin,

Wear standing collars, were they made of tin!

And have a neckcloth—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 current flows;

Tired of the ripples on its feeble springs,

Once more the Muse unfolds her upward wings.

Land of my birth, with this unhallowed 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, mountain, 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 everywhere.

Some grave compatriot, having seen perhaps

The pictured page that goes in Worcester'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

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.

Oh! 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!

Becalm, dear brother! whose impassioned 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,

Need'st thou, 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 honest 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 humblest name

Cold are thy skies, but, ever fresh and clear,

No rank malaria stains thine atmosphere;

No fungous weeds invade thy scanty soil,

Scarred by the ploughshares of unslumbering 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 discordant cries,

The mad Briareus of disunion rise,

Chiefs of New England! by your sires' renown,

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!

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 hallowed shore,

Though strewn with weeds, is granite at the core;

Oh, rather trust that He who made her free

Will keep her true as long as faith shall be!

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 died!'"

AN AFTER-DINNER POEM

(TERPSICHORE)

Read at the Annual Dinner of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at

Cambridge, August 24, 1843.

IN narrowest girdle, O 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.

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 niggard Time,

Like that false matron, known to nursery rhyme,—

Insidious Morey,—scarce her tale begun,

Ere listening infants weep the story done.

Oh, 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 conversation runs

Through mouldy toasts to oxidated puns,

And grating songs a listening crowd endures,

Rasped from the throats of bellowing amateurs;

Sermons, whose writers played such dangerous tricks

Their own heresiarchs called them heretics,

(Strange that one term such distant poles should link,

The Priestleyan's copper and the Puseyan'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 despair

To guess what mummy of a thought was there,

Where our poor English, striped with foreign 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 appeal,

Each fact as slippery as a fresh-caught eel;

And figured heads, whose hieroglyphs invite

To wandering knaves that discount fools at sight:

Such things as these, with heaps of unpaid 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 sartor pale,

Their sequels tapering like a lizard's tale,—

How might we spread them to the smiling 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 mountain mass

We snatch in haste, and let the vagrant pass.

This shrunken CRUST that Cerberus could not bite,

Stamped (in one corner) "Pickwick copyright,"

Kneaded by youngsters, raised by flattery'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 bumper's brim

Have wit and wisdom,—for they all quote him.

So, many a tongue the evening hour prolongs

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 minor keys,

Waves all her onions to the trembling breeze;

While the great Feasted views with silent glee

His scattered limbs in Yankee fricassee.

Sweet is the scene where genial friendship plays

The pleasing game of interchanging praise.

Self-love, grimalkin of the human heart,

Is 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 purr.

But what sad music fills the quiet hall,

If on her back a feline rival fall!

And oh, what noises shake the tranquil house

If old Self-interest cheats her of a mouse.

Thou, O my country, hast thy foolish ways,

Too apt to purr 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 Carlyle,—

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 combined.

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 between

The ocean's azure and the prairie's green;

Full many a blank his destined realm displays,

Yet sees 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-nymph in her distant cave!

While tasks like these employ his anxious hours,

What if his cornfields are not edged with flowers?

Though bright as silver the meridian beams

Shine through the crystal of thine English 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.

Rise, Europe, tottering with thine Atlas load,

Turn thy proud eye to Freedom's blest 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 blackened star!

Once more,—once only,—- we must stop so soon:

What have we here? A GERMAN-SILVER 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 expansive ears

Maternal kindness grazed with frequent shears;

Each bristling crop a dangling mass becomes,

And all the spoonies turn to Absaloms

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 hundred tongues

"Ever" "The Ages" in their page appear,

"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 oh, what questions asked in clubfoot rhyme

Of Earth the tongueless and the deaf-mute Time!

Here babbling "Insight" shouts in Nature's ears

His last conundrum on the orbs and spheres;

There Self-inspection sucks its little thumb,

With "Whence am I?" and "Wherefore 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?

Oh might these couplets their attention claim

That gain their author the Philistine's name

(A stubborn race, that, spurning foreign law,

Was much belabored with an ass's jaw.)

Melodious Laura! From the sad retreats

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 slipshod dreamer treads thy fragrant 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 Phoebus 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 oh, still happier if the next forgets

Thy daring steps and dangerous pirouettes!

MEDICAL POEMS

THE MORNING VISIT

A sick man's chamber, though it often boast

The grateful presence of a literal toast,

Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth,

The right unchallenged to propose a health;

Yet though its tenant is denied the feast,

Friendship must launch his sentiment at least,

As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers' lips,

Toss them a kiss from off their fingers' tips.

The morning visit,—not till sickness falls

In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;

Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack

Stretch you all helpless on your aching back;

Not till you play the patient in your turn,

The morning visit's mystery shall you learn.

'T is a small matter in your neighbor's case,

To charge your fee for showing him your face;

You skip up-stairs, inquire, inspect, and touch,

Prescribe, take leave, and off to twenty such.

But when at length, by fate's transferred decree,

The visitor becomes the visitee,

Oh, then, indeed, it pulls another string;

Your ox is gored, and that's a different thing!

Your friend is sick: phlegmatic as a Turk,

You write your recipe and let it work;

Not yours to stand the shiver and the frown,

And sometimes worse, with which your draught goes down.

Calm as a clock your knowing hand directs,

Rhei, jalapae ana grana sex,

Or traces on some tender missive's back,

Scrupulos duos pulveris ipecac;

And leaves your patient to his qualms and gripes,

Cool as a sportsman banging at his snipes.

But change the time, the person, and the place,

And be yourself "the interesting case,"

You'll gain some knowledge which it's well to learn;

In future practice it may serve your turn.

Leeches, for instance,—pleasing creatures quite;

Try them,—and bless you,—don't you find they bite?

You raise a blister for the smallest cause,

But be yourself the sitter whom it draws,

And trust my statement, you will not deny

The worst of draughtsmen is your Spanish fly!

It's mighty easy ordering when you please,

Infusi sennae capiat uncias tres;

It's mighty different when you quackle down

Your own three ounces of the liquid brown.

Pilula, pulvis,—pleasant words enough,

When other throats receive the shocking stuff;

But oh, what flattery can disguise the groan

That meets the gulp which sends it through your own!

Be gentle, then, though Art's unsparing rules

Give you the handling of her sharpest tools;

Use them not rashly,—sickness is enough;

Be always "ready," but be never "rough."

Of all the ills that suffering man endures,

The largest fraction liberal Nature cures;

Of those remaining, 't is the smallest part

Yields to the efforts of judicious Art;

But simple Kindness, kneeling by the bed

To shift the pillow for the sick man's head,

Give the fresh draught to cool the lips that burn,

Fan the hot brow, the weary frame to turn,—

Kindness, untutored by our grave M. D.'s,

But Nature's graduate, when she schools to please,

Wins back more sufferers with her voice and smile

Than all the trumpery in the druggist's pile.

Once more, be quiet: coming up the stair,

Don't be a plantigrade, a human bear,

But, stealing softly on the silent toe,

Reach the sick chamber ere you're heard below.

Whatever changes there may greet your eyes,

Let not your looks proclaim the least surprise;

It's not your business by your face to show

All that your patient does not want to know;

Nay, use your optics with considerate care,

And don't abuse your privilege to stare.

But if your eyes may probe him overmuch,

Beware still further how you rudely touch;

Don't clutch his carpus in your icy fist,

But warm your fingers ere you take the wrist.

If the poor victim needs must be percussed,

Don't make an anvil of his aching bust;

(Doctors exist within a hundred miles

Who thump a thorax as they'd hammer piles;)

If you must listen to his doubtful chest,

Catch the essentials, and ignore the rest.

Spare him; the sufferer wants of you and art

A track to steer by, not a finished chart.

So of your questions: don't in mercy try

To pump your patient absolutely dry;

He's not a mollusk squirming in a dish,

You're not Agassiz; and he's not a fish.

And last, not least, in each perplexing case,

Learn the sweet magic of a cheerful face;

Not always smiling, but at least serene,

When grief and anguish cloud the anxious scene.

Each look, each movement, every word and tone,

Should tell your patient you are all his own;

Not the mere artist, purchased to attend,

But the warm, ready, self-forgetting friend,

Whose genial visit in itself combines

The best of cordials, tonics, anodynes.

Such is the visit that from day to day

Sheds o'er my chamber its benignant ray.

I give his health, who never cared to claim

Her babbling homage from the tongue of Fame;

Unmoved by praise, he stands by all confest,

The truest, noblest, wisest, kindest, best.

1849.

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,—

While Valor's haughty champions wait

Till all their scars are shown,

Love walks unchallenged through the gate,

To sit beside the Throne.

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,

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'll 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

Oh ho! the matter is clear, no doubt;

An aneurism there plainly is.

The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie

And the bruit de diable are all combined;

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 buttered rolls,

And dieted, much to their friends' surprise,

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 the rale sonore.

He shook his head. There's grave disease,—

I greatly fear you all must die;

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 proud 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,—

Nay, shines, all radiance, o'er the scattered fleet

Of gulls and boobies brainless at its feet.

I tell their fate, though courtesy disclaims

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 AEgean 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 ancient walls,

The silent Arab arched its mystic halls;

In that fair niche, by countless billows laved,

Trace the deep lines that Sydenham engraved;

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, O Science, shall thy life-blood freeze,

When fluttering folly flaps on walls like these?

A PORTRAIT

Thoughtful in youth, but not austere 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

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 declined,

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

O Bios Bpaxus,—life is but a song;

H rexvn uakpn,—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 degrees,

And blend our toil with moments bright as these;

Let Friendship's accents cheer our doubtful 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!

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 affections.

They make a feast on Thursday next,

And hope to make the feasters merry;

They own they're something more perplexed

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 ditties;

Upon my soul, it makes me laugh

To read these letters from Committees!

They're all so loving and so fair,—

All for your sake such kind compunction;

'T would save your carriage half its wear

To touch its wheels with such an unction!

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?

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 borders,

And hand it to the stately dame

That florists breed for, all she orders.

She thanks you,—it was kindly meant,—

(A pale afair, not worth the keeping,)—

Good morning; and your bud is sent

To join the tea-leaves used for sweeping.

Not always so, kind hearts and true,—

For such I know are round me beating;

Is not the bud I offer you,

Fresh gathered for the hour of meeting,

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 gleaming;

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!

O 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, Science, Art,

From heads and hands that own a common heart!

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 victim 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 deplore,

When Learning sighs, and Skill can do no more,

The tear of FRIENDSHIP pours its heavenly balm,

And soothes the pang no anodyne may calm

May 1, 1855.

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 manhood 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

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 understood,—

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 WINKLUM, QUEM we—SCIMUS—know

IDONEUM ESSE—to do so and so.

He hired an office; soon its walls displayed

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, Thoroughwort,

Ant. Tart., Vin. Colch., Pil. Cochiae, and Black Drop,

Tinctures of Opium, Gentian, Henbane, Hop,

Pulv. Ipecacuanhae, 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, Assafoetida, 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 compile

The same at home, and call it "wax and ile;"

Unguentum resinosum—change its name,

The "drawing salve" of many an ancient dame;

Argenti Nitras, also Spanish flies,

Whose virtue makes the water-bladders rise—

(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

Emplastrum Ferri—ditto Picis, Pitch;

Washes and Powders, Brimstone for the—which,

Scabies or Psora, is thy chosen name

Since Hahnemann's goose-quill scratched thee into fame,

Proved thee the source of every nameless 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 well-nigh said them—words unfitting 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 't was 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'll soon be through with it;

But shook their heads before the knockered 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 succeeded 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.

"Drownded," they guessed;—for more than half a year

The pouts and eels did taste uncommon queer;

Some said of apple-brandy—other some

Found a strong flavor of New England rum.

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 declared—

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 quantum suff.,

We'll 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 'll send around the monkey with the hat.

CANTO SECOND

So thirty years had passed—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 captured Lee!

Up every flagstaff sprang the Stars and Stripes—

Out rushed the Extras wild with mammoth 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 'll 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 wakened Rip.

I spare the picture, how a man appears

Who's been asleep a score or two of years;

You all have seen it to perfection done

By Joe Van Wink—I mean Rip Jefferson.

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, a 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 before—

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, getting 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 't was 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 Doctor's care—

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 "rheumatiz."

Rubs back with flannel—gives him something hot—

"Ah!" says the Deacon, "that goes nigh the spot."

Next day a rigor—"Run, my little man,

And say the Deacon sends for Doctor Van."

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 of Antimonium 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'll kill the Deacon too."

Now when a doctor's patients are perplexed,

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 appears

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,

Leeches and blisters rescued from disgrace,

Your drugs redeemed from fashion's passing scorn,

And counted safe to give to babes unborn."

Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.,

A puzzled, serious, saddened man was he;

Home from the Deacon's house he plodded 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'll take the barn, if all the same to you.

Just once a year—remember! no mistake!

Cry, 'Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!'

Watch for the week in May when laylocks 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 husband's name;

"Come, Rip Van Winkle!" (giving him a shake)

"Rip! Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!

Laylocks 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'll quickly know him by his mildewed 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 presume?—

Toadstool? No matter—call it a mushroom.

Where is his seat? He moves it every year;

But look, you'll find him,—he is always here,—

Perhaps you'll 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.!

SONGS IN MANY KEYS

1849-1861

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! 't is 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.

AGNES

The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage 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 Hopkinton, in company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of Medford; 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 Julia was living, and on our return we called at the house where she resided.—[She was living June 10, 1861, when this ballad was published]—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 trifling details which are given; they are taken from the record. 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 arrangements 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.

The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr. E. L. Bynner.

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 England-born romance

Of Agnes and the Knight;

Yet, known to all the country round,

Their home is standing still,

Between Wachusett'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;

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' celestial 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 shape

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 Swampscott, 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.

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 blush 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

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 Surriage 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 't is day!" With eager eye

He hails the morning shine:—

"If art can win, or gold can buy,

The maiden shall be mine!"

PART THIRD

THE CONQUEST

"Who 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!"

"Servant! 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 'll 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 letters 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!"

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,

And 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.

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.

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!

The earth has folded like a wave,

And thrice a thousand score,

Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave,

The sun shall see no more!

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."

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 protests

No man can lift alone,—

Oh! 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;

I 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 spare

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 then 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 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 terrace 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 AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY, OCTOBER 4, 1849

CLEAR the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam!

Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,

With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt 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 upheaves,

Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves;

Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train

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 resound,

The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,

Till the wide field one billowy waste appears,

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-commanded Toil

Shows on his deed,—the charter of the soil.

O 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 sear thy fairest plain,

Still thy soft answer is the growing grain.

Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms

Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms,

Let not our virtues in thy love decay,

And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away.

No! by these hills, whose banners now displayed

In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed;

By yon twin summits, on whose splintery 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 mankind,

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 ploughshare won!

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 dripping eaves,

Spring's earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves,

Bright with the hues from wider pictures 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,

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 shortened 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 opening 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 displays;

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 Nature 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, rayless, 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 firelight'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 quivering 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 cone.

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 hidden 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 Moss'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 sage,

The Aldine anchor on his opening page;

There sleep the births of Plato's heavenly mind,

In yon dark tomb by jealous clasps confused,

"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 Baskerville;

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 mysteries teach,

In spectral pictures, or in crabbed speech;

Harvey and Haller, fresh from Nature's page,

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 ancient 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 appointed place;

I snatch the book, along whose burning leaves

His scarlet web our wild romancer weaves,

Yet, while proud Hester's fiery pangs I share,

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 welcome 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 overhead,

His kind, pale mother, not ashamed to weep

Her first-born's bridal with the haggard deep,

While the brave father stood with tearless eye,

Smiling and choking with his last good-by.

'T is but a wave, whose spreading circle 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!

O child of earth! If floating sounds like these

Steal from thyself their power to wound or please,

If here or there thy changing will inclines,

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 passion'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 wolf's 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 crimson 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 in 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 machines,

The Holy-Week of Protestants convenes;

Whom school-boys question if their walk transcends

The last advices of maternal friends;

Whom John, obedient to his master's sign,

Conducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine,

While Peter, glistening with luxurious scorn,

Husks his white ivories like an ear of corn;

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, O stranger, him thou canst not fear.

Be slow to judge, and slower to despise,

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 gaberdine,

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 buccaneer,

Feels the same comfort while his acrid words

Turn the sweet milk of kindness into curds,

Or with grim logic prove, beyond debate,

That all we love is worthiest of our hate,

As the scarred ruffian of the pirate's deck,

When his long swivel rakes the staggering 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 parole,

Who, though he carries but a doubtful trace

Of angel visits on his hungry face,

From lack of marrow or the coins to pay,

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?

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 you spy,

You stretch to pluck it—'tis a butterfly;

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 subject'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 lessons 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;

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'er-spread

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 melting 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.

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 melting 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-wearing 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,

Which of his double lives most real 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 pursue,—

Dream on! there 's nothing but illusion true!

A POEM

DEDICATION OF THE PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, SEPTEMBER 9,1850

ANGEL 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, O Destroyer! from thy shrouded throne

Look on our gift; this realm is all thine own!

Fair is the scene; its sweetness oft beguiled

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 barbarian 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 tossing 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 pencilled 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 consents 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,

Life's withering flower shall drop its shrivelled seeds;

Its germ entranced in thy unbreathing 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 sunshine's dower;

For tranquil Nature owns no mourning flower.

Come from the forest where the beech's screen

Bars the fierce moonbeam 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 majestic 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 distant plain;

There, while the mourner turns his aching 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,

Oh, 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

We read thy mercy by its sterner name;

In the bright flower that decks the solemn 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 before,

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 resplendent spheres

Gild the smooth turf unhallowed yet by tears,

But ah! how soon the evening stars will shed

Their sleepless light around the slumbering dead!

Take them, O 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; oh, 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;

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!

PITTSFIELD, 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, unwronged by time,

From age to age, from clime to clime!

1852.

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.

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.

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 treacherous bay

On comes the blast; too daring bark, beware I

The cloud has clasped her; to! it melts away;

The wide, waste waters, but no sail is there.

Morning: a woman looking on the sea;

Midnight: with lamps the long veranda 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 passing sigh,

O 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 mariner'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 turbulent March,

Till the green scarf of April is hung on the larch,

And down the bright hillside that welcomes 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.

It is but a word, and the chain is unbound,

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 untamed 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 unclasping 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 we 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 shadows 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-flowing 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;

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 forefathers' 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.

THE NEW EDEN

MEETING OF THE BERKSHIRE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY, AT STOCKBRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 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.

Dear though the shadowy maple be,

And dearer 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 perfume,

And branches waved their long farewell,

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,

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!

SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY NEW YORK, DECEMBER 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 gleaming 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 liberty-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;

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 befall;

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 treacherous 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 turbulent 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;

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 pulses 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 LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, FEBRUARY 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 morn 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

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 maybe 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 I

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.

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 trie

Whose heart was like the streaming eaves

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

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 pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign

Save whitening lip and fading tresses,

Till Death pours out his longed-for 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,

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 relate

The little suffering outcast's ail?

Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate

So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale.

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,

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, walk 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 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 sensation's 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!

O Father! grant thy love divine

To make these mystic temples thine!

When wasting age and wearying strife

Have sapped the leaning walls of life,

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. R. 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!

O faithful shepherd! thou hast borne

The heat and burden of the clay;

Yet, o'er thee, bright with beams unshorn,

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, 1860.

THE GRAY CHIEF

FOR THE MEETING OF THE MASSACHUSETTS 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.

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH 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?"

O 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.

"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'll 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!

Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light,

Where all the robes are stainless white.

Toll the bell!

MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD 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 come 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 digging 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;

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'll 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 or low degree,

Remember 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 milk-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 Degree!

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,

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, our 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 confessed?

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

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 CELEBRATION

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 storied river,

The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon

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 sheeliug,

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!

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 likewise 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;

I call men old at fifty, in spite of all they say.

At last comes another August with mist and rain and shine;

Its mornings are slowly counted and creep to twenty-nine,

And when on the western summits the fading light appears,

It touches with rosy fingers 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's getting wrinkled and weak in back and limb,

Losing his wits and temper, but pleading, to make amends,

The youth of his fifty summers he finds in his twenty friends.

FOR THE FAIR IN AID OF THE FUND TO PROCURE BALL'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON

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 Shawinut 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.

186-

Around the green, in morning light,

The spired and palaced summits blaze,

And, sunlike, 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.

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.

Oh, 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 believe, 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 is n't a second to lose."

"ALL ABOARD!" (He holds on.) "Fsht I 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!

Oh 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 'll have it on you!

INTERNATIONAL ODE

OUR FATHERS' LAND

GOD bless our Fathers' Land!

Keep her in heart and hand

One with our own!

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!

A SENTIMENT OFFERED AT THE DINNER TO H. I. H. THE PRINCE NAPOLEON, AT THE REVERE HOUSE, SEPTEMBER 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!

O 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 passion and pride,—

Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!

She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,

And turned on her brother the face of a foe!

Oh, 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 finger 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, "Forgive 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 eaves,

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

Roll mingled in peace through the valleys 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!

Oh, 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.

NOTES: (For original print volume one)

[There stand the Goblet and the Sun.] The Goblet and the Sun (Vas-Sol), sculptured on a free-stone slab supported by five pillars, are the only designation of the family tomb of the Vassalls.

[Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn.]

See "Old Ironsides," of this volume.

[On other shores, above their mouldering towns.]

Daniel Webster quoted several of the verses which follow, in his address

at the laying of the corner-stone of the addition to the Capitol at

Washington, July 4, 1851.

[Thou calm, chaste scholar.]

Charles Chauncy Emerson; died May 9, 1836.

[And thou, dear friend, whom Science still deplores.]

James Jackson, Jr., M. D.; died March 28, 1834.

[THE STEAMBOAT.] Mr. Emerson has quoted some lines from this poem, but somewhat disguised as he recalled them. It is never safe to quote poetry without referring to the original.

[Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome 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 presented nothing more attractive than a massive simplicity. In the front of this tower, till the church was demolished in 1872, there was to be seen, half imbedded in the brick-work, a cannon-ball, which was thrown from the American fortifications at Cambridge, during the bombard-ment 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, long the only chime in Boston.

[INTERNATIONAL ODE.] This ode was sung in unison by twelve hundred children of the public schools, to the air of "God save the Queen," at the visit of the Prince of Wales to Boston, October 18, 1860.

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

[Volume 2 or the 1893 three volume set]

CONTENTS:

POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29 (1851-1889)

BILL AND JOE

A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE"

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

AN IMPROMPTU

THE OLD MAN DREAMS

REMEMBER—FORGET

OUR INDIAN SUMMER

MARE RUBRUM

THE Boys

LINES

A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH

J. D. R.

VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION

"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE"

F. W. C.

THE LAST CHARGE

OUR OLDEST FRIEND

SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH

MY ANNUAL

ALL HERE

ONCE MORE

THE OLD CRUISER

HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING

EVEN-SONG

THE SMILING LISTENER

OUR SWEET SINGER: J. A.

H. C. M., H. S., J. K. W.

WHAT I HAVE COME FOR

OUR BANKER

FOR CLASS-MEETING

"AD AMICOS"

HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT

THE LAST SURVIVOR

THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS

THE SHADOWS

BENJAMIN PEIRCE

IN THE TWILIGHT

A LOVING-CUP SONG

THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP

THE LYRE OF ANACREON

THE OLD TUNE

THE BROKEN CIRCLE

THE ANGEL-THIEF

AFTER THE CURFEW

POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1857-1858)

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

SUN AND SHADOW

MUSA

A PARTING HEALTH: To J. L. MOTLEY

WHAT WE ALL THINK

SPRING HAS COME

PROLOGUE

LATTER-DAY WARNINGS

ALBUM VERSES

A GOOD TIME GOING!

THE LAST BLOSSOM

CONTENTMENT

AESTIVATION

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSE SHAY"

PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY; OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER

POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1858-1859) UNDER THE VIOLETS HYMN OF TRUST A SUN-DAY HYMN THE CROOKED FOOTPATH IRIS, HER BOOK ROBINSON OF LEYDEN ST ANTHONY THE REFORMER THE OPENING OF THE PIANO MIDSUMMER DE SAUTY

POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1871-1872) HOMESICK IN HEAVEN FANTASIA AUNT TABITHA WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE SERIES

SONGS OF MANY SEASONS (1862-1874) OPENING THE WINDOW PROGRAMME

IN THE QUIET DAYS AN OLD-YEAR SONG DOROTHY Q: A FAMILY PORTRAIT THE ORGAN-BLOWER AT THE PANTOMIME AFTER THE FIRE A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY NEARING THE SNOW-LINE

IN WAR TIME TO CANAAN: A PURITAN WAR-SONG "THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS" NEVER OR NOW ONE COUNTRY GOD SAVE THE FLAG! HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN ARMY HYMN PARTING HYMN THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY THE SWEET LITTLE MAN UNION AND LIBERTY

SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL

AMERICA TO RUSSIA

WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBASSY

AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE EMBASSY

BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ

AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT

AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT

To H W LONGFELLOW

To CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG

A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS

MEMORIAL VERSES FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, BOSTON, 1865 FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES, CAMBRIDGE JULY 21, 1865 EDWARD EVERETT: JANUARY 30, 1865 SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, APRIL 23, 1864 IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT WARE, MAY 25, 1864 HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY: CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEMBER 14, 1869 POEM AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869 HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF HARVARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, OCTOBER 6, 1870 HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, 1874 HYMN AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874

RHYMES OF AN HOUR

ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, N. Y. 1873

A SEA DIALOGUE

CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC

FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER, PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, 1873

A POEM SERVED TO ORDER

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

No TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

A HYMN OF PEACE, TO THE MUSIC OF KELLER'S "AMERICAN HYMN"

NOTES

POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29

1851-1889

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 Tam 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 O N. 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, stern 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,

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,

Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE"

1851

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 Praeses 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 Freischutz 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 fledged, 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'll 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'll say, before he 's spoken—

"Old Classmate, don't you cry!

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!

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

1852

WHERE, oh 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, oh 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 Advertisers,—

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 (—Greek—) 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, through the ebbing of Time's mighty river

Leave our young blossoms to die,

Let him roll smooth in his current forever,

Till the last pebble is dry.

AN IMPROMPTU

Not premeditated

1853

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

That tore from their lives the last blossom 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 my brain

Till our twentieth sweet summer was smiling again!

THE OLD MAN DREAMS

1854

OH for one hour of youthful joy!

Give back my twentieth spring!

I'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'll 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!

"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'll 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!"

And so I laughed,—my laughter woke

The household with its noise,—

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

REMEMBER—FORGET

1855

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;

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 halloo,

We climbed our painted bark;

We sailed her through the four years' cruise,

We 'll 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!

OUR INDIAN SUMMER

1856

You 'll believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise,

With a welcome like this in your darling 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.

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 twentieth 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 as 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!

MARE RUBRUM

1858

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.

Here lies the home of school-boy life,

With creaking stair and wind-swept hall,

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-tongued 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 fills 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!

THE BOYS

1859

HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?

If there has, take him out, without making a noise.

Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue'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;

When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,

We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent 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 laughing, and gay,

Till the last dear companion drops smiling 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!

LINES

1860

I '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 before,—

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 poorest of these,

Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musical bees?

What voice is so sweet and what greeting 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,

But up-hill and down-hill, through rattle 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!

A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH

1861

JANUARY THIRD

WE sing "Our Country's" song to-night

With saddened voice and eye;

Her banner droops in clouded light

Beneath the wintry sky.

We'll 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!

J. D. R.

1862

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 knew he loved me well,

He loved me—and is gone!

VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION

1862

'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?

—O landsman, there 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!

O 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?

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! 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!

"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE"

1863

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 wasting 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 statesmen may urge,

Of school-house and wages with slave-pen 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!

"O 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,

His voice dies unheard.—Hear the Puritan's prayer!

"O 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 struggles 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, O 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 girdle the sphere!

F. W. C.

1864

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—oh, 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 disclaim,

Yet 't was the sunset's lightning's flash,

No angry bolt, but harmless flame.

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

O 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 grief's 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!

THE LAST CHARGE

1864

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 sluggards 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 life-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,

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!

OUR OLDEST FRIEND

1865

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 breathing 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,

Put 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 passed,

Some dear old fellow will 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 tough as he!

SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH

A HALF-RHYMED IMPROMPTU

1865

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!

MY ANNUAL

1866

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 unbroken, untarnished 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 will 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 fashioned the lyres

That ring with the hymns of the seraphim 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.

Each hour of the past lends its tribute to this,

Till it blooms like a bower in the Garden of Bliss;

The thorn and the thistle may grow as they will,

Where Friendship unfolds there is Paradise 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 shed,

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 countersign 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 sun;

We echo its words,—We are one! We are one!

ALL HERE

1867

IT is not what we say or sing,

That keeps our charm so long unbroken,

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—

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 together!

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 cluster!

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 immortals;

They come as in their joyous prime,

Before their morning days were numbered,—

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 and temper;

It writes upon its sacred seal

The priest's ubique—omnes—semper!

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!"

ONCE MORE

ONCE MORE

1868

"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-mention but one—

That missed your old comrade who carries 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'll bet you! What doesn't it hold?

Rammed full to the muzzle with memories 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 cartridge is there!

With a wadding of rose-leaves and ribbons 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 wall split the old gun,—

Three fingers,—four fingers,—five fingers of fun!

Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief and noise

Was there ever a lot like us fellows, "The Boys"?

Bump I 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" reechoed the call;

Till P——- poked his head out of Holworthy 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!

Oh 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-vanished 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 running away,

And punch came up smoking on Fillebrown's tray?

But where are the Tutors, my brother, oh tell!—

And where the Professors, remembered 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 accustomed 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 Prises,—he can't find his text;

See,—P——- rubs 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!—Oh, 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 "Noyes"; Et floreant, valeant, vigeant tam, Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam!

THE OLD CRUISER

1869

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,

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,—

Reads 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 '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 replies:—

"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;

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!

HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING

1869

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 sleep;

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!

EVEN-SONG.

1870

IT may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings

An end to mortal things,

That 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 find 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 summer's heat

Pipes from its leafy seat,

The dim pavilion of embowering green

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 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 scrambling 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!

THE SMILING LISTENER

1871

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 lachrymal 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.

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?" Humanity 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?

Ah! 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 pendulum tick,

For we're low in the tallow and long in the wick.

You remember Rossini—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 sad,

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 recall

The flowers that have faded bloom fairest of all!

OUR SWEET SINGER

J. A.

1872

ONE memory trembles on our lips;

It throbs in every breast;

In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse,

The shadow stands confessed.

O 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.

Oh 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.

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!

H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W.

1873

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,

And balmiest leaves have strown and tenderest 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?

Once more let flowers be strown.

Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own!

WHAT I HAVE COME FOR

1873

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;

I want to hear him with the Brobdingnag 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—oh, 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.

OUR BANKER

1874

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.

This only we know,—amid sorrows and joys

Old Time has been easy and kind with "The Boys."

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 remember as girls,

And the comely white cap takes the place of the curls.

But the sighing and moaning and groaning 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 pleasant 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 release

When the vesper is heard with its whisper 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

1875

IT is a pity 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 us.

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 what I sing you brings a smile, you will not stop to catechise, Nor read Bceotia'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 officiously, 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

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,— With 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 remnant 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, 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!

"AD AMICOS"

1876

"Dumque virent genua

Et decet, obducta solvatur fonte 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 Plutarch'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'll 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,

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;

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 splendor!

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.

O 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 hereafter.

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 'll be

As long as three, as two, are creeping;

Then here 's to him—ah! which is he?—

Who lives till all the rest are sleeping;

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.

HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT

1877

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 Beethoven.

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 Ruskin.

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' reperusing.

So, too, at times when melancholy rhymes

Or solemn speeches sober down a dinner,

I've seen it 's true, quite often,—have n't you?—

The best-fed guests perceptibly grow thinner.

Better some jest (in proper terms expressed)

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 business 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 behind them.

Yet when I think we may be on the brink

Of having Freedom's banner to dispose 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 on.

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 gave 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 Nation'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-baggers.

"Fifteen each side, the combatants divide,

So nicely balanced are their predilections;

And first of all a tear-drop each lets fall,

A tribute to their obsolete affections.

"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 solitary.

"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 fragments, several score;

A heap of spectacles; a deaf man's trumpet;

Six lawyers' briefs; seven pocket-handkerchiefs;

Twelve canes wherewith the owners used to stump it;

"Odd rubber-shoes; old gloves of different hues;

Tax—bills,—unpaid,—and several empty purses;

And, saved from harm by some protecting charm,

A printed page with Smith's immortal verses;

"Trifles that claim no very special name,—

Some useful, others chiefly ornamental;

Pins, buttons, rings, and other trivial things,

With various wrecks, capillary and dental.

"Also, one flag,—'t was nothing but a rag,

And what device it bore it little matters;

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,

Next 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 contemplation.

To cut men's throats to help them count their votes

Is asinine—nay, worse—ascidian folly;

Blindness like that would scare the mole and bat,

And make the liveliest monkey melancholy.

I say once more, as I have said before,

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 murderous hags,

You petroleuses of Paris, fierce and foamy;

We'll sell our stock in Plymouth's blasted rock,

Pull up our stakes and migrate to Dahomey!

THE LAST SURVIVOR

1878

YES! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, going fast,

And the thought comes strangely o'er me, who will live to be the last?

When the twentieth century's sunbeams climb the far-off eastern hill,

With his ninety winters burdened, will he greet the morning still?

Will he stand with Harvard's nurslings when they hear their mother's call

And the old and young are gathered in the many alcoved hall?

Will he answer to the summons when they range themselves in line

And the young mustachioed marshal calls out "Class of '29 "?

Methinks I see the column as its lengthened ranks appear

In the sunshine of the morrow of the nineteen hundredth year;

Through the yard 't is creeping, winding, by the walls of dusky red,—

What shape is that which totters at the long procession's head?

Who knows this ancient graduate of fourscore years and ten,—

What place he held, what name he bore among the sons of men?

So speeds the curious question; its answer travels slow;

"'T is the last of sixty classmates of seventy years ago."

His figure shows but dimly, his face I scarce can see,—

There's something that reminds me,—it looks like—is it he?

He? Who? No voice may whisper what wrinkled brow shall claim

The wreath of stars that circles our last survivor's name.

Will he be some veteran minstrel, left to pipe in feeble rhyme

All the stories and the glories of our gay and golden time?

Or some quiet, voiceless brother in whose lonely,loving breast

Fond memory broods in silence, like a dove upon her nest?

Will it be some old Emeritus, who taught so long ago

The boys that heard him lecture have heads as white as snow?

Or a pious, painful preacher, holding forth from year to year

Till his colleague got a colleague whom the young folks flocked to hear?

Will it be a rich old merchant in a square-tied white cravat,

Or select-man of a village in a pre-historic hat?

Will his dwelling be a mansion in a marble-fronted row,

Or a homestead by a hillside where the huckleberries grow?

I can see our one survivor, sitting lonely by himself,—

All his college text-books round him, ranged in order on their shelf;

There are classic "interliners" filled with learning's choicest pith,

Each cum notis variorum, quas recensuit doctus Smith;

Physics, metaphysics, logic, mathematics—all the lot

Every wisdom—crammed octavo he has mastered and forgot,

With the ghosts of dead professors standing guard beside them all;

And the room is fall of shadows which their lettered backs recall.

How the past spreads out in vision with its far receding train,

Like a long embroidered arras in the chambers of the brain,

From opening manhood's morning when first we learned to grieve

To the fond regretful moments of our sorrow-saddened eve!

What early shadows darkened our idle summer's joy

When death snatched roughly from us that lovely bright-eyed boy!

The years move swiftly onwards; the deadly shafts fall fast,—

Till all have dropped around him—lo, there he stands,—the last!

Their faces flit before him, some rosy-hued and fair,

Some strong in iron manhood, some worn with toil and care;

Their smiles no more shall greet him on cheeks with pleasure flushed!

The friendly hands are folded, the pleasant voices hushed!

My picture sets me dreaming; alas! and can it be

Those two familiar faces we never more may see?

In every entering footfall I think them drawing near,

With every door that opens I say, "At last they 're here!"

The willow bends unbroken when angry tempests blow,

The stately oak is levelled and all its strength laid low;

So fell that tower of manhood, undaunted, patient, strong,

White with the gathering snowflakes, who faced the storm so long.

And he,—what subtle phrases their varying light must blend

To paint as each remembers our many-featured friend!

His wit a flash auroral that laughed in every look,

His talk a sunbeam broken on the ripples of a brook,

Or, fed from thousand sources, a fountain's glittering jet,

Or careless handfuls scattered of diamond sparks unset;

Ah, sketch him, paint him, mould him in every shape you will,

He was himself—the only—the one unpictured still!

Farewell! our skies are darkened and—yet the stars will shine,

We 'll close our ranks together and still fall into line

Till one is left, one only, to mourn for all the rest;

And Heaven bequeath their memories to him who loves us best!

THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS

A MODERNIZED VERSION

1879

I DON'T think I feel much older; I'm aware I'm rather gray,

But so are many young folks; I meet 'em every day.

I confess I 'm more particular in what I eat and drink,

But one's taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think.

Can you read as once you used to? Well, the printing is so bad, No young folks' eyes can read it like the books that once we had. Are you quite as quick of hearing? Please to say that once again. Don't I use plain words, your Reverence? Yes, I often use a cane,

But it's not because I need it,—no, I always liked a stick;

And as one might lean upon it, 't is as well it should be thick.

Oh, I'm smart, I'm spry, I'm lively,—I can walk, yes, that I can,

On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man!

Don't you get a little sleepy after dinner every day? Well, I doze a little, sometimes, but that always was my way. Don't you cry a little easier than some twenty years ago? Well, my heart is very tender, but I think 't was always so.

Don't you find it sometimes happens that you can't recall a name?

Yes, I know such lots of people,—but my memory 's not to blame.

What! You think my memory's failing! Why, it's just as bright and clear,

I remember my great-grandma! She's been dead these sixty year!

Is your voice a little trembly? Well, it may be, now and then,

But I write as well as ever with a good old-fashioned pen;

It 's the Gillotts make the trouble,—not at all my finger-ends,—

That is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for dividends.

Don't you stoop a little, walking? It 's a way I 've always had, I have always been round-shouldered, ever since I was a lad. Don't you hate to tie your shoe-strings? Yes, I own it—that is true. Don't you tell old stories over? I am not aware I do.

Don't you stay at home of evenings? Don't you love a cushioned seat In a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet? Don't you wear warm fleecy flannels? Don't you muffle up your throat Don't you like to have one help you when you're putting on your coat?

Don't you like old books you've dogs-eared, you can't remember when? Don't you call it late at nine o'clock and go to bed at ten? How many cronies can you count of all you used to know Who called you by your Christian name some fifty years ago?

How look the prizes to you that used to fire your brain? You've reared your mound-how high is it above the level plain? You 've drained the brimming golden cup that made your fancy reel, You've slept the giddy potion off,—now tell us how you feel!

You've watched the harvest ripening till every stem was cropped, You 've seen the rose of beauty fade till every petal dropped, You've told your thought, you 've done your task, you've tracked your dial round, —I backing down! Thank Heaven, not yet! I'm hale and brisk and sound,

And good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see;

My shoes are not quite ready yet,—don't think you're rid of me!

Old Parr was in his lusty prime when he was older far,

And where will you be if I live to beat old Thomas Parr?

Ah well,—I know,—at every age life has a certain charm,— You're going? Come, permit me, please, I beg you'll take my arm. I take your arm! Why take your arm? I 'd thank you to be told I 'm old enough to walk alone, but not so very old!

THE SHADOWS

1880

"How many have gone?" was the question of old

Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft;

Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled,

And the question we ask is, "How many are left?"

Bright sparkled the wine; there were fifty that quaffed;

For a decade had slipped and had taken but three.

How they frolicked and sung, how they shouted and laughed,

Like a school full of boys from their benches set free!

There were speeches and toasts, there were stories and rhymes,

The hall shook its sides with their merriment's noise;

As they talked and lived over the college-day times,—

No wonder they kept their old name of "The Boys"!

The seasons moved on in their rhythmical flow

With mornings like maidens that pouted or smiled,

With the bud and the leaf and the fruit and the snow,

And the year-books of Time in his alcoves were piled.

There were forty that gathered where fifty had met;

Some locks had got silvered, some lives had grown sere,

But the laugh of the laughers was lusty as yet,

And the song of the singers rose ringing and clear.

Still flitted the years; there were thirty that came;

"The Boys" they were still, and they answered their call;

There were foreheads of care, but the smiles were the same,

And the chorus rang loud through the garlanded hall.

The hour-hand moved on, and they gathered again;

There were twenty that joined in the hymn that was sung;

But ah! for our song-bird we listened in vain,—

The crystalline tones like a seraph's that rung!

How narrow the circle that holds us to-night!

How many the loved ones that greet us no more,

As we meet like the stragglers that come from the fight,

Like the mariners flung from a wreck on the shore!

We look through the twilight for those we have lost;

The stream rolls between us, and yet they seem near;

Already outnumbered by those who have crossed,

Our band is transplanted, its home is not here!

They smile on us still—is it only a dream?—

While fondly or proudly their names we recall;

They beckon—they come—they are crossing the stream—

Lo! the Shadows! the Shadows! room—room for them all!

BENJAMIN PEIRCE

ASTRONOMER, MATHEMATICIAN. 1809-1890

1881

FOR him the Architect of all

Unroofed our planet's starlit hall;

Through voids unknown to worlds unseen

His clearer vision rose serene.

With us on earth he walked by day,

His midnight path how far away!

We knew him not so well who knew

The patient eyes his soul looked through;

For who his untrod realm could share

Of us that breathe this mortal air,

Or camp in that celestial tent

Whose fringes gild our firmament?

How vast the workroom where he brought

The viewless implements of thought!

The wit how subtle, how profound,

That Nature's tangled webs unwound;

That through the clouded matrix saw

The crystal planes of shaping law,

Through these the sovereign skill that planned,—

The Father's care, the Master's hand!

To him the wandering stars revealed

The secrets in their cradle sealed

The far-off, frozen sphere that swings

Through ether, zoned with lucid rings;

The orb that rolls in dim eclipse

Wide wheeling round its long ellipse,—

His name Urania writes with these

And stamps it on her Pleiades.

We knew him not? Ah, well we knew

The manly soul, so brave, so true,

The cheerful heart that conquered age,

The childlike silver-bearded sage.

No more his tireless thought explores

The azure sea with golden shores;

Rest, wearied frame I the stars shall keep

A loving watch where thou shalt sleep.

Farewell! the spirit needs must rise,

So long a tenant of the skies,—

Rise to that home all worlds above

Whose sun is God, whose light is love.

IN THE TWILIGHT

1882

NOT bed-time yet! The night-winds blow,

The stars are out,—full well we know

The nurse is on the stair,

With hand of ice and cheek of snow,

And frozen lips that whisper low,

"Come, children, it is time to go

My peaceful couch to share."

No years a wakeful heart can tire;

Not bed-time yet! Come, stir the fire

And warm your dear old hands;

Kind Mother Earth we love so well

Has pleasant stories yet to tell

Before we hear the curfew bell;

Still glow the burning brands.

Not bed-time yet! We long to know

What wonders time has yet to show,

What unborn years shall bring;

What ship the Arctic pole shall reach,

What lessons Science waits to teach,

What sermons there are left to preach.

What poems yet to sing.

What next? we ask; and is it true

The sunshine falls on nothing new,

As Israel's king declared?

Was ocean ploughed with harnessed fire?

Were nations coupled with a wire?

Did Tarshish telegraph to Tyre?

How Hiram would have stared!

And what if Sheba's curious queen,

Who came to see,—and to be seen,—

Or something new to seek,

And swooned, as ladies sometimes do,

At sights that thrilled her through and through,

Had heard, as she was "coming to,"

A locomotive's shriek,

And seen a rushing railway train

As she looked out along the plain

From David's lofty tower,—

A mile of smoke that blots the sky

And blinds the eagles as they fly

Behind the cars that thunder by

A score of leagues an hour!

See to my fiat lux respond

This little slumbering fire-tipped wand,—

One touch,—it bursts in flame!

Steal me a portrait from the sun,—

One look,—and to! the picture done!

Are these old tricks, King Solomon,

We lying moderns claim?

Could you have spectroscoped a star?

If both those mothers at your bar,

The cruel and the mild,

The young and tender, old and tough,

Had said, "Divide,—you're right, though rough,"—

Did old Judea know enough

To etherize the child?

These births of time our eyes have seen,

With but a few brief years between;

What wonder if the text,

For other ages doubtless true,

For coming years will never do,—

Whereof we all should like a few,

If but to see what next.

If such things have been, such may be;

Who would not like to live and see—

If Heaven may so ordain—

What waifs undreamed of, yet in store,

The waves that roll forevermore

On life's long beach may east ashore

From out the mist-clad main?

Will Earth to pagan dreams return

To find from misery's painted urn

That all save hope has flown,—

Of Book and Church and Priest bereft,

The Rock of Ages vainly cleft,

Life's compass gone, its anchor left,

Left,—lost,—in depths unknown?

Shall Faith the trodden path pursue

The crux ansata wearers knew

Who sleep with folded hands,

Where, like a naked, lidless eye,

The staring Nile rolls wandering by

Those mountain slopes that climb the sky

Above the drifting sands?

Or shall a nobler Faith return,

Its fanes a purer gospel learn,

With holier anthems ring,

And teach us that our transient creeds

Were but the perishable seeds

Of harvests sown for larger needs,

That ripening years shall bring?

Well, let the present do its best,

We trust our Maker for the rest,

As on our way we plod;

Our souls, full dressed in fleshly suits,

Love air and sunshine, flowers and fruits,

The daisies better than their roots

Beneath the grassy sod.

Not bed-time yet! The full-blown flower

Of all the year—this evening hour—

With friendship's flame is bright;

Life still is sweet, the heavens are fair,

Though fields are brown and woods are bare,

And many a joy is left to share

Before we say Good-night!

And when, our cheerful evening past,

The nurse, long waiting, comes at last,

Ere on her lap we lie

In wearied nature's sweet repose,

At peace with all her waking foes,

Our lips shall murmur, ere they close,

Good-night! and not Good-by!

A LOVING-CUP SONG

1883

COME, heap the fagots! Ere we go

Again the cheerful hearth shall glow;

We 'll have another blaze, my boys!

When clouds are black and snows are white,

Then Christmas logs lend ruddy light

They stole from summer days, my boys,

They stole from summer days.

And let the Loving-Cup go round,

The Cup with blessed memories crowned,

That flows whene'er we meet, my boys;

No draught will hold a drop of sin

If love is only well stirred in

To keep it sound and sweet, my boys,

To keep it sound and sweet.

Give me, to pin upon my breast,

The blossoms twain I love the best,

A rosebud and a pink, my boys;

Their leaves shall nestle next my heart,

Their perfumed breath shall own its part

In every health we drink, my boys,

In every health we drink.

The breathing blossoms stir my blood,

Methinks I see the lilacs bud

And hear the bluebirds sing, my boys;

Why not? Yon lusty oak has seen

Full tenscore years, yet leaflets green

Peep out with every spring, my boys,

Peep out with every spring.

Old Time his rusty scythe may whet,

The unmowed grass is glowing yet

Beneath the sheltering snow, my boys;

And if the crazy dotard ask,

Is love worn out? Is life a task?

We'll bravely answer No! my boys,

We 'll bravely answer No!

For life's bright taper is the same

Love tipped of old with rosy flame

That heaven's own altar lent, my boys,

To glow in every cup we fill

Till lips are mute and hearts are still,

Till life and love are spent, my boys,

Till life and love are spent.

THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP

1884

SHE gathered at her slender waist

The beauteous robe she wore;

Its folds a golden belt embraced,

One rose-hued gem it bore.

The girdle shrank; its lessening round

Still kept the shining gem,

But now her flowing locks it bound,

A lustrous diadem.

And narrower still the circlet grew;

Behold! a glittering band,

Its roseate diamond set anew,

Her neck's white column spanned.

Suns rise and set; the straining clasp

The shortened links resist,

Yet flashes in a bracelet's grasp

The diamond, on her wrist.

At length, the round of changes past

The thieving years could bring,

The jewel, glittering to the last,

Still sparkles in a ring.

So, link by link, our friendships part,

So loosen, break, and fall,

A narrowing zone; the loving heart

Lives changeless through them all.

THE LYRE OF ANACREON

1885

THE minstrel of the classic lay

Of love and wine who sings

Still found the fingers run astray

That touched the rebel strings.

Of Cadmus he would fain have sung,

Of Atreus and his line;

But all the jocund echoes rung

With songs of love and wine.

Ah, brothers! I would fain have caught

Some fresher fancy's gleam;

My truant accents find, unsought,

The old familiar theme.

Love, Love! but not the sportive child

With shaft and twanging bow,

Whose random arrows drove us wild

Some threescore years ago;

Not Eros, with his joyous laugh,

The urchin blind and bare,

But Love, with spectacles and staff,

And scanty, silvered hair.

Our heads with frosted locks are white,

Our roofs are thatched with snow,

But red, in chilling winter's spite,

Our hearts and hearthstones glow.

Our old acquaintance, Time, drops in,

And while the running sands

Their golden thread unheeded spin,

He warms his frozen hands.

Stay, winged hours, too swift, too sweet,

And waft this message o'er

To all we miss, from all we meet

On life's fast-crumbling shore:

Say that, to old affection true,

We hug the narrowing chain

That binds our hearts,—alas, how few

The links that yet remain!

The fatal touch awaits them all

That turns the rocks to dust;

From year to year they break and fall,—

They break, but never rust.

Say if one note of happier strain

This worn-out harp afford,—

One throb that trembles, not in vain,—

Their memory lent its chord.

Say that when Fancy closed her wings

And Passion quenched his fire,

Love, Love, still echoed from the strings

As from Anacreon's lyre!

THE OLD TUNE

THIRTY-SIXTH VARIATION

1886

THIS shred of song you bid me bring

Is snatched from fancy's embers;

Ah, when the lips forget to sing,

The faithful heart remembers!

Too swift the wings of envious Time

To wait for dallying phrases,

Or woven strands of labored rhyme

To thread their cunning mazes.

A word, a sigh, and lo, how plain

Its magic breath discloses

Our life's long vista through a lane

Of threescore summers' roses!

One language years alone can teach

Its roots are young affections

That feel their way to simplest speech

Through silent recollections.

That tongue is ours. How few the words

We need to know a brother!

As simple are the notes of birds,

Yet well they know each other.

This freezing month of ice and snow

That brings our lives together

Lends to our year a living glow

That warms its wintry weather.

So let us meet as eve draws nigh,

And life matures and mellows,

Till Nature whispers with a sigh,

"Good-night, my dear old fellows!"

THE BROKEN CIRCLE

1887

I STOOD On Sarum's treeless plain,

The waste that careless Nature owns;

Lone tenants of her bleak domain,

Loomed huge and gray the Druid stones.

Upheaved in many a billowy mound

The sea-like, naked turf arose,

Where wandering flocks went nibbling round

The mingled graves of friends and foes.

The Briton, Roman, Saxon, Dane,

This windy desert roamed in turn;

Unmoved these mighty blocks remain

Whose story none that lives may learn.

Erect, half buried, slant or prone,

These awful listeners, blind and dumb,

Hear the strange tongues of tribes unknown,

As wave on wave they go and come.

"Who are you, giants, whence and why?"

I stand and ask in blank amaze;

My soul accepts their mute reply

"A mystery, as are you that gaze.

"A silent Orpheus wrought the charm

From riven rocks their spoils to bring;

A nameless Titan lent his arm

To range us in our magic ring.

"But Time with still and stealthy stride,

That climbs and treads and levels all,

That bids the loosening keystone slide,

And topples down the crumbling wall,—

"Time, that unbuilds the quarried past,

Leans on these wrecks that press the sod;

They slant, they stoop, they fall at last,

And strew the turf their priests have trod.

"No more our altar's wreath of smoke

Floats up with morning's fragrant dew;

The fires are dead, the ring is broke,

Where stood the many stand the few."

My thoughts had wandered far away,

Borne off on Memory's outspread wing,

To where in deepening twilight lay

The wrecks of friendship's broken ring.

Ah me! of all our goodly train

How few will find our banquet hall!

Yet why with coward lips complain

That this must lean, and that must fall?

Cold is the Druid's altar-stone,

Its vanished flame no more returns;

But ours no chilling damp has known,—

Unchanged, unchanging, still it burns.

So let our broken circle stand

A wreck, a remnant, yet the same,

While one last, loving, faithful hand

Still lives to feed its altar-flame!

THE ANGEL-THIEF

1888

TIME is a thief who leaves his tools behind him;

He comes by night, he vanishes at dawn;

We track his footsteps, but we never find him

Strong locks are broken, massive bolts are drawn,

And all around are left the bars and borers,

The splitting wedges and the prying keys,

Such aids as serve the soft-shod vault-explorers

To crack, wrench open, rifle as they please.

Ah, these are tools which Heaven in mercy lends us

When gathering rust has clenched our shackles fast,

Time is the angel-thief that Nature sends us

To break the cramping fetters of our past.

Mourn as we may for treasures he has taken,

Poor as we feel of hoarded wealth bereft,

More precious are those implements forsaken,

Found in the wreck his ruthless hands have left.

Some lever that a casket's hinge has broken

Pries off a bolt, and lo! our souls are free;

Each year some Open Sesame is spoken,

And every decade drops its master-key.

So as from year to year we count our treasure,

Our loss seems less, and larger look our gains;

Time's wrongs repaid in more than even measure,—

We lose our jewels, but we break our chains.

AFTER THE CURFEW

1889

THE Play is over. While the light

Yet lingers in the darkening hall,

I come to say a last Good-night

Before the final Exeunt all.

We gathered once, a joyous throng:

The jovial toasts went gayly round;

With jest, and laugh, and shout, and song,

We made the floors and walls resound.

We come with feeble steps and slow,

A little band of four or five,

Left from the wrecks of long ago,

Still pleased to find ourselves alive.

Alive! How living, too, are they

Whose memories it is ours to share!

Spread the long table's full array,—

There sits a ghost in every chair!

One breathing form no more, alas!

Amid our slender group we see;

With him we still remained "The Class,"—

Without his presence what are we?

The hand we ever loved to clasp,—

That tireless hand which knew no rest,—

Loosed from affection's clinging grasp,

Lies nerveless on the peaceful breast.

The beaming eye, the cheering voice,

That lent to life a generous glow,

Whose every meaning said "Rejoice,"

We see, we hear, no more below.

The air seems darkened by his loss,

Earth's shadowed features look less fair,

And heavier weighs the daily cross

His willing shoulders helped us bear.

Why mourn that we, the favored few

Whom grasping Time so long has spared

Life's sweet illusions to pursue,

The common lot of age have shared?

In every pulse of Friendship's heart

There breeds unfelt a throb of pain,—

One hour must rend its links apart,

Though years on years have forged the chain.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

So ends "The Boys,"—a lifelong play.

We too must hear the Prompter's call

To fairer scenes and brighter day

Farewell! I let the curtain fall.

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 new,

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, O 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!

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 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'll trim our broad sail as before,

And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,

Nor ask how we look from the shore!

MUSA

O MY lost beauty!—hast thou folded quite

Thy wings of morning light

Beyond those iron gates

Where Life crowds hurrying to the haggard 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 fragrant 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 honeyed words,

Sweeter than song of birds;—

No wailing bulbul's throat,

No melting dulcimer's melodious note

When o'er the midnight wave its murmurs 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 twines,—

Pure pearls of Maydew where the moonlight 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!

Come while their balms the linden-blossoms 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!

Oh 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 laurels 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 bring.

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 timid,

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 freedom 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

THAT age was older once than now,

In spite of locks untimely shed,

Or 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 fingers 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 thousand more!"

Though temples crowd the crumbled brink

O'erhanging truth's eternal flow,

Their tablets bold with what we think,

Their echoes dumb to what we 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

INTRA 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!

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 bloom 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.

Oh for one spot of living greed,—

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 Shakespeare 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 young 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

On the green—baize,—beneath the (canvas) trees,—

See to her side avenging Valor fly:—

"Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!"

When the poor hero flounders in despair,

Some dear lost uncle turns up millionaire,

Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal 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 electric wire,—

The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves

Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.

All earthly powers confess your sovereign 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 murderous 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 crashing sneeze,

Off his head tumbled,—bowled along the floor,—

Bounced down the steps;—the prisoner said no more!

Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye;

If death lurk in it, oh how sweet to die!

Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head;

We die with love, and never dream we're dead!

LATTER-DAY WARNINGS

WHEN legislators keep the law,

When banks dispense with bolts and looks,

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 Cumming 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,

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!

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 between,—

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

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 graybeards 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,—

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 baubles; 't is a sin

To care for such unfruitful things;—

One good-sized diamond in a pin,—

Some, not so large, in rings,—

A ruby, 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, I 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!

AESTIVATION

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR

IN candent ire the solar splendor flames;

The foles, langueseent, pend from arid rames;

His humid front the Give, anheling, wipes,

And dreams of erring on ventiferous riper.

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,—

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!

Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,—

Depart,—be off,—excede,—evade,—erump!

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE

OR, 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 'll 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-hoss 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,—lurking 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 down, 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

'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

It should be so built that it couldn' break daown

"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain

Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;

'n' 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 couldn'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 straightest 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,

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 'll 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.

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,

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 couldn'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 encore.

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt

In another hour it will be worn out!

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 perplexed

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!

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

OR, 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'll 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 umbaked 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;

Got 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

To ye oldest Youth in ye Senior Classe.

On payment of "—(naming a certain sum)—

"By him to whom ye Chaire shall come;

He to ye 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 ROBINSON; five got Dix;

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 declare,—

(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 Lighthorse 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."

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 'll 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'll know.

Once a year, on Commencement day,

If you 'll only take the pains to stay,

You'll 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'll 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 wouldn'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

While the nectar (logwood) still reddens our cups as they flow?

Pour out the rich juices (decoction) still bright with the sun,

Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies (dye-stuff) shall run.

The purple-globed clusters (half-ripened apples) their life-dews have

bled;

How sweet is the breath (taste) of the fragrance they shed!(sugar of

lead)

For summer's last roses (rank poisons) lie hid in the wines (wines!!!)

That were garnered by maidens who laughed through the vines (stable-boys

smoking long-nines)

Then a smile (scowl) and a glass (howl) and a toast (scoff) and a cheer (sneer); For all the good wine, and we 've some of it here! (strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer!) In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all! (Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!)

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,

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,

O 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 thin!

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 between,

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!

Truants from love, we dream of wrath;

Oh, 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 before thee!

For Iris had no mother to infold her,

Nor ever leaned upon a sister's shoulder,

Telling the twilight thoughts that Nature told her.

She had not learned the mystery of awaking

Those chorded keys that soothe a sorrow'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 unbroken?

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 nature wearing:

Sometimes a flashing falcon in her daring,

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 tormentor.

And then all tears and anguish: Queen of Heaven,

Sweet Saints, and Thou by mortal sorrows riven,

Save me! Oh, 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 harmless gift of pleasing feature,

Saying, unsaddened,—This shall soon be faded,

And double-hued the shining tresses braided,

And all the sunlight of the morning shaded?

This her poor book is full of saddest follies,

Of tearful smiles and laughing melancholies,

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.

"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 unknown.

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!

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 I 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,

Sat down to the new "Clementi," 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,—something 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 creature 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!

O 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

The first messages received through the submarine cable were sent by an electrical expert, a mysterious personage who signed himself De Sauty.

Professor Blue-Nose

PROFESSOR

TELL me, O Provincial! speak, Ceruleo-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-receiving feature

Three times daily patent?

Breathes there such a being, O Ceruleo-Nasal?

Or is he a mythus,—ancient word for "humbug"—

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-solution?

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 shall 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 articulation,

Said, "All right! DE SAUTY."

From the lonely station passed the utterance, spreading

Through the pines and hemlocks to the groves of steeples,

Till the land was filled with loud reverberations

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. O. H. N. Ferrum, Chlor. Flu. Sil. Potassa,

Cale. 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'll hear him

Cry, "All right! DE SAUTY."

POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE

1871-1872

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?

FIRST SPIRIT

Chide not thy sisters,—thus the answer came;—

Children of earth, our half-weaned nature clings

To earth's fond memories, and her whispered name

Untunes our quivering lips, our saddened 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 changeless blue.

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 pressed;

Can I forget him in my life new born?

Oh 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!—is the lover's creed.

THE ANGEL

And whence thy 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 wasting 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 no more.

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.

I 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 footstep's guide!

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 thy fond embrace,—

To come with love's warm kisses back to thee,—

To show thine eyes thy gray-haired father'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 GIRL'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 GIRL'S POEM

WHATEVER I do, and whatever I say,

Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n'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 detestable men;

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 'll ask my papa

How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;

Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?

And what shall I 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 I go,

Aunt Tabitha 'll 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 conqueror'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 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 midnight 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;

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 ions past,

A youth who watched beneath the western 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 sunburnt 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, unknown,

And let Fame blow her trumpet through the world

With noisy wind to swell a fool's renown,

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 unseen.

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 ponderous 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!

II.

REGRETS

BRIEF glimpses of the bright celestial spheres,

False lights, false shadows, vague, uncertain gleams,

Pale vaporous mists, wan streaks of lurid flame,

The climbing of the upward-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-breeding night

Steal all the freshness from my fading cheek,

And leave its shadows round my caverned 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 foretold

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 moist life of all that breathes shall die;

Or as the new-born seer, perchance more wise,

Would have us deem, before its growing mass,

Pelted with star-dust, stoned with meteor-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 flaming 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 pyramids

By the same stars I watch. I read the page

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, unknown,

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 beneath

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

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 unvalued 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, caressing 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 resounding line,

As ocean, when the stormy winds are hushed,

Still rolls and thunders through his billowy caves.

IV.

MASTER AND SCHOLAR

LET me retrace the record of the years

That made me what I am. A man most wise,

But overworn with toil and bent with age,

Sought me to be his scholar,-me, run wild

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

W e 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 pitying 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 lengthening shades,

That clutches what it may with eager grasp,

And drops at last with empty, outstretched 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 senseless 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.

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 slumbering 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 withhold

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 men.

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;

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 flickering 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 blaze

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 several 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 huddling crowd

Alike in all things save the words they use;

In love, in longing, hate and fear the same.

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

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 disguised

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, O 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 rapturous 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 "Forgive,"

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 Allahs 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 creeping things,

Reptiles that left their footprints in the sand

Of old sea-margins that have turned to stone,

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 caravan,

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 heaps,

But yours of mightier cities that shall rise

Where yet the lonely fishers spread their nets,

Where hides the fox and hoots the midnight 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 work

To keep your hands from that forbidden tree!

Ye that have tasted that divinest fruit,

Look on this world of yours with opened eyes!

Y e 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

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 and treacherous 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 breathing 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 the earth before the rose

Can show her inmost heart-leaves to the sun.

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 arraigns

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 beyond

His earthly master, would his love extend

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 smallest 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 measures 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,"

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 glittering 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 newborn

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,

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 immortal truth

That heroes fought for, martyrs died to save,

Reveals its earth-born lineage, growing old

And limping in its march, its wings unplumed,

Its heavenly semblance faded like a dream!

Here in this painted casket, just unsealed,

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 odorous 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.

XI.

IDOLS

BUT what is this?

The sacred beetle, bound upon the breast

Of the blind heathen! Snatch the curious 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!

AM longer than thy creed has blest the world

This toy, thus ravished from thy brother'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 choking sobs,

And prayers to those who judge of mortal deeds,

Wrapped this poor image in the cerement'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 glittering gold,

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 incomplete.

At twoscore, 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

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 cradle 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,

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 gracious 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 mankind,

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.

Oh 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 melodious strings

One long, sweet anthem flows forevermore!

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 yeas

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!

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 BOORS 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!'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 'll 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,

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 forlorn

In leather jerkin stained and torn,

Whose talk has filled my idle hour

And made me half forget the shower,

I'll do at least as much for you,

Your coat I'll patch, your gilt renew,

Read you—perhaps—some other time.

Not bad, my bargain! Price one dime!

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!

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?

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 gi 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

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 spread

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

To flit among the trellised vines,

Or fan the air with scented plumes

Amid the love-sick orange-blooms,

And thou art here alone,—alone,—

Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.

The snow has capped yon distant hill,

At morn the running brook was still,

From driven herds the clouds that rise

Are like the smoke of sacrifice;

Erelong 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 PORTRAIT

I cannot tell the story of Dorothy Q. more simply in prose than I have told it in verse, but I can add something to it. Dorothy was the daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy, and the niece of Josiah Quincy, junior, the young patriot and orator who died just before the American Revolution, of which he was one of the most eloquent and effective promoters. The son of the latter, Josiah Quincy, the first mayor of Boston bearing that name, lived to a great age, one of the most useful and honored citizens of his time. The canvas of the painting was so much decayed that it had to be replaced by a new one, in doing which the rapier thrust was of course filled up.

GRANDMOTHER'S mother: her age, I guess,

Thirteen summers, or something less;

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-billed rebel town

Dear is that ancient name's renown,

For many a civic wreath they won,

The youthful sire and the gray-haired son.

O 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!

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 whispered then

You may hear to-day in a hundred men.

O 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!

I 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.

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.

O 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, O 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.

1812.

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.

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 immingled 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 eyes,

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,

With thee 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

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.

O 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'r 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 spread in flight,

And blot the day and blast then 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

Read at a meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society.

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!

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,

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-Hillers—

The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew,—

The tories seize the omen:

"Ay, boys, you'll 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!

O 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 thee,

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;

No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow,

Their lingering sweetness load the morning gale;

Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, pale,

That on their ice-clad stems all trembling blow

Along the margin of unmelting snow;

Yet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail,

White realm of peace above the flowering 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 filled the air with smoke of vain desires,

And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine!

1870.

IN WARTIME

TO CANAAN

A PURITAN WAR SONG

This poem, published anonymously in the Boston Evening Transcript, was claimed by several persons, three, if I remember correctly, whose names I have or have had, but never thought it worth while to publish.

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!

They'll pile up Freedom's breastwork,

They 'LL 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'll break the tyrant's sceptre,—

We 'll 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, 1862.

"THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS."

IN poisonous dens, where traitors hide

Like bats that fear the day,

While all the land our charters claim

Is sweating blood and breathing flame,

Dead to their country's woe and shame,

The recreants whisper STAY!

In peaceful homes, where patriot fires

On Love's own altars glow,

The mother hides her trembling fear,

The wife, the sister, checks a tear,

To breathe the parting word of cheer,

Soldier of Freedom, Go!

In halls where Luxury lies at ease,

And Mammon keeps his state,

Where flatterers fawn and menials crouch,

The dreamer, startled from his couch,

Wrings a few counters from his pouch,

And murmurs faintly WAIT!

In weary camps, on trampled plains

That ring with fife and drum,

The battling host, whose harness gleams

Along the crimson-flowing streams,

Calls, like a warning voice in dreams,

We want you, Brother! COME!

Choose ye whose bidding ye will do,—

To go, to wait, to stay!

Sons of the Freedom-loving town,

Heirs of the Fathers' old renown,

The servile yoke, the civic crown,

Await your choice To-DAY!

The stake is laid! O gallant youth

With yet unsilvered brow,

If Heaven should lose and Hell should win,

On whom shall lie the mortal sin,

That 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 defended,

Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame

You whose fair heritage spotless descended,

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 nation,

Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom;

Now is the day and the hour of salvation,—

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 martyrs are lying

Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,—

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered,

Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough,

Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered,

Hear the last Angel-trump,—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 consuming,

Flash its broad ribbons of lily and rose.

Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it,

Vainly his worshippers pray for its fall;

Thousands have died for it, millions defend 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 errors,

'Sheathing the sabre and breaking the chain.

Borne on the deluge of old usurpations,

Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate seas,

Bearing the rainbow of hope to the nations,

Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze!

God bless the Flag and its loyal defenders,

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!

1865.

HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION

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.

Ruler of Nations, judge our cause!

If we have kept thy holy laws,

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!

1865.

HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO

O 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.

Thine altar is the sufferer's bed,

The home of woe and pain,

The soldier's turfy pillow, red

With battle's crimson rain.

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!

O 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.

UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE

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 banners bore,

And fight till the land was free.

Half of their work was done,

Half is left to do,—

Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!

When the battle is fought and won,

What shall be told of you?

Hark!—'t is the south-wind moans,—

Who are the martyrs down?

Ah, the marrow was true in your children'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 renew

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, uncrowned!

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"

O 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.

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, PRAISE 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;

Oh, 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

Oh 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,

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 sweethearts are weeping;

What are you waiting for, sweet little man?

You with the terrible warlike mustaches,

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!

Oh, 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-Runners 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-takers,

Such 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 peut! Bridget, and right about! Ann;—

Fierce as a shark in a school of menhadens,

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 expect 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 glory,

Borne through their battle-fields' thunder 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 mountain to shore,

While through the sounding sky

Loud rings the Nation's cry,—

UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!

Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation,

Pride of her children, and honored afar,

Let the wide beams of thy full constellation

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 blighted,

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, oh keep us the MANY IN ONE!

Up with our banner bright,

Sprinkled with starry light,

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,

While through the sounding sky

Loud rings the Nation's cry,—

UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!

SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL

AMERICA TO RUSSIA

AUGUST 5, 1866

Read by Hon. G. 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,

O Neva of the banded isles,

We moor our hearts in thee!

WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

MUSIC HALL, DECEMBER 6, 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!

Bleak are our shores with the blasts of 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 communion,

Blend your broad flashes with evening'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 nothing can change;

The dwellers by Neva its meaning can tell,

For the smile, its interpreter, shows it full well.

That word! How it gladdened the Pilgrim 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 remembered 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,

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'll 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-tempered air,

And our firesides are warm and our maidens are fair.

The flowers are full-blown in the garlanded hall,—

They will bloom round his footsteps wherever they fall;

For the splendors of youth and the sunshine they bring

Make the roses believe 't is the summons 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 to I a new-born nation waits,

Sitting at the golden gates

That glitter by the sunset sea,—

Waits with outspread arms for thee!

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 musical 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 little 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 "couldn'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 Puritan'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

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'll 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 especially now.

You'll 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'll find H. G. really as loving as he.

But oh, 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

O 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 remain;

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, oh spare us long our heart's desire!

Moloch, who calls our children through the fire,

Leaves us the gentle master of the lyre.

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 days

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 mankind:

In his own verse the poet still we find,

In his own page his memory lives enshrined,

As in their amber sweets the smothered bees,—

As the fair cedar, fallen before the breeze,

Lies self-embalmed amidst the mouldering 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 own

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 blackened skies!

Then, when his summons comes, since come it must,

And, looking heavenward with unfaltering 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 strowed,

And every white-throned star fixed in its lost

abode!

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'll 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,

"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!

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 stroke of knife or dagger,

From the puma and the jaguar,

From the horrid boa-constrictor

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 squirmin',

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'll try to find him,)

The tax-bill and assessor,—

Heaven keep the great Professor

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 mollusks.

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 mottled

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.

God bless the great Professor!

And Madam, too, God bless her!

Bless him and all his band,

On the sea and on the land,

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' poeans,

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!

1865.

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!

Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea

Or skirts the safer shores

Of all that bore to victory

Our stout old commodores;

Hull, Bainbridge, 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!

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,

O 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.

But now the heavens grow black with doubt,

The ravens fill the sky,

"Friends" plot within, foes storm without,

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

Has 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!

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 seas,

Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings 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 happier 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.

We who behold our autumn sun below

The Scorpion's sign, against the Archer'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 sunshine 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 EHRENBERG

FOR HIS "JUBILAEUM" AT BERLIN, NOVEMBER 5, 1868

This poem was written at the suggestion of Mr. George Bancroft, the historian.

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 mortal sight,

Even as the patient watchers of the night,—

The cyclope 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-tinctured 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

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 nations 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 belong

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 remembrance thine!

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!

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

Oh 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, O Father, while we raise

With trembling lips our song of praise,

And bless thy name forever!

FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES

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 tempest 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 overcast,

Or the sweet promise of the day new-born?

Tell us, O father, as thine arms infold

Thy belted first-born in their fast embrace,

Murmuring the prayer the patriarch breathed of old,—

"Now let me die, for I have seen thy face!"

Tell us, O mother,—nay, thou canst not speak,

But thy fond eyes shall answer, brimmed with joy,—

Press thy mute lips against the sunbrowned cheek,

Is this a phantom,—thy returning boy?

Tell us, O 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,

Read 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 conqueror's car

The ensigns waved, the brazen clarions blew,

And o'er the reeking spoils of bandit war

With outspread wings the cruel eagles flew;

Arms, treasures, captives, kings in clanking chains

Urged on by trampling cohorts bronzed and scarred,

And wild-eyed wonders snared on Lybian 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 Marathon!

Behold a vision none hath understood!

The breaking of the Apocalyptic seal;

Twice rings the summons.—Hail and fire and blood!

Then the third angel blows his trumpet-peal.

Loud wail the dwellers on the myrtled coasts,

The green savannas swell the maddened cry,

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 unspotted guns,

No terror shrouded in the smoke-wreath's curls.

O 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 countersign,

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"

Read at the meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society,

January 30, 1865.

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 declare.

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,

Love, by his beating pulses taught, will claim

The breath of song, the tuneful throb of verse,—

Verse 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 complete,

No partial gift of Nature in excess,

That, like a single stream where many meet,

Each separate talent counted something 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 mastering 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 festal 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;

Grace 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,

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 Gethsemane?

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 unborn 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 England keep;

Shall warring aliens share her holy task?"

The Old World echoes ask.

O 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 quadrant-lines,—

As in that world of Nature all outgrown

Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines,

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 behold

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 splendors 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 divine,

And hear the shouted choral shake the skies,

Counting all glory, power, and wisdom 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!

Oh, 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 Society,

May 25, 1864.

No 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.

The young are stricken in their pride,

The old, long tottering, faint and fall;

Master and scholar, side by side,

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, SEPTEMBER 14, 1869

BONAPARTE, AUGUST 15, 1769.-HUMBOLDT, 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 swinging 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;

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 starlight shine;

He scaled the mountain's windy solitudes,

And trod the galleries of the breathless mine.

For him no fingering of the love-strung lyre,

No problem vague, by torturing schoolmen 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 mortal 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 conqueror's shrine

Whose bloodless triumphs cost no sufferer's tear!

Hero of knowledge, be our tribute thine!"

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

Roll 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!

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 LAYING OF THE CORNERSTONE OF HARVARD 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,

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 unborn!

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!

O 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 fearless 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

SUNG 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;

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

ADDRESS

FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 3, 1873

HANG out our banners on the stately tower

It dawns at last—the long-expected hour I

The steep is climbed, the star-lit summit 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 forget

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 fountain gushed,

With kindling mountains glowed the funeral pyre,

Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire,—

The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling curtain 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, to! 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

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 domain,

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 entwine,

Here dwell the fairest sisters of the Nine,—

She who, with jocund voice and twinkling eye,

Laughs at the brood of follies as they fly;

She of the dagger and the deadly bowl,

Whose charming horrors thrill the trembling soul;

She who, a truant from celestial spheres,

In mortal semblance now and then appears,

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 children 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 mountain 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,

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 Dejazet);

The saucy-aproned, razor-tongued soubrette,

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 impatient pours,

With noise of trampling feet and flapping doors,

Streams to the numbered seat each pasteboard fits

And smooths its caudal plumage as it sits;

Waits while the slow musicians saunter in,

Till the bald leader taps his violin;

Till 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 curtain furled,

And to! the glories of that brighter world!

Behold the offspring of the Thespian cart,

This full-grown temple of the magic art,

Where all the conjurers 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 cheating 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 Dundreary's eyes I

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,

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 Macaires,—

Could doff, like us, their knavery with their clothes,

And find it easy as forgetting oaths!

Welcome, thrice welcome to our virgin 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 timid 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 picture of our play to-night.

Farewell! The Players wait the Prompter's call;

Friends, lovers, listeners! Welcome one and all!

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, emeralds, 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, parchments, books;

What many-lobuled, thought-engendering brains;

Lie with the gaping sea-shells in his maw,—

I, too, am silent; for all language seems

A mockery, and the speech of man is vain.

O mariner, we look upon the waves

And they rebuke our babbling. "Peace!" they say,—

"Mortal, be still!" My noisy tongue is hushed,

And 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

The charm of stillness with an idle word!"

O mariner, I love thee, for thy thought

Strides even with my own, nay, flies before.

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 Aeolian orchestra

Storms out its mad sonata in the gale?

Is not the scene a wondrous and—

MAN AT WHEEL.

A vast!

CABIN PASSENGER.

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, O 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.

CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC

BY THE PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF DEAD AND LIVE LANGUAGES

PHI BETA KAPPA.—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"

(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,—

Voila Adolphe! Voila Eugene!"

Ah, jeune Lisette! Ah, belle Fifine!

Anacreon's lesson all must learn;

O kairos oxiis; 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 playday 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!

O 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 embrace;

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 monarch 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,

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 machine;

The weight rises slowly; it drops with a thud;

And, to! 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 ribbon-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,—anchored 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 grandfather 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 Balt.," with my "C. B. and Q.;"

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 gammon,—

"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,

Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on

(Look in Eothen,-there you'll 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 doesn'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'll 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 wouldn'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!

I 've caught—Lord bless me! how he squirms!

An eel, and not a salmon!

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

READ AT THE MEETING OF THE HARVARD 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;

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, to!

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!

NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

THERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young,

When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring-time sung!

The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed,

But oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first!

There is no place like the old place, where you and I were born,

Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn

From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that

bore,

Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more!

There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days,

No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise

Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold;

But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.

There is no love like the old love, that we courted in our pride;

Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side,

There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn,

And we live in borrowed sunshine when the day-star is withdrawn.

There are no times like the old times,—they shall never be forgot!

There is no place like the old place,—keep green the dear old spot!

There are no friends like our old friends,—may Heaven prolong their

lives

There are no loves like our old loves,—God bless our loving wives!

1865.

A HYMN OF PEACE

SUNG AT THE "JUBILEE," JUNE 15, 1869, TO THE MUSIC OF SELLER'S "AMERICAN HYMN"

ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long!

Spread thy white wings to the sunshine 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!

Joyous 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!

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 reply,—

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!

NOTES.

THE BOYS. The members of the Harvard College class of 1829 referred to in this poem are: "Doctor," Francis Thomas; "Judge," G. T. Bigelow, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts; "O Speaker," Hon. Francis B. Crowninshield, Speaker of the Massachusetts House of Representatives; "Mr. Mayor," G. W. Richardson, of Worcester,Mass.; "Member of Congress," Hon. George T. Davis; "Reverend," James Freeman Clarke; "boy with the grave mathematical look," Benjamin Peirce; "boy with a three-decker brain," Judge Benjamin R. Curtis, of the Supreme Court of the United States; "nice youngster of excellent pith," S. F. Smith, author of "My Country, 't is of Thee."

"That lovely, bright-eyed boy." William Sturgis.

"Who faced the storm so long." Francis B. Crowninshield.

"Our many featured friend." George T. Davis.

"The close-clinging dulcamara." The "bitter-sweet" of New England is the Celastrus scandens, "bourreau des arbres" of the Canadian French.

"All armed with picks and spades." The captured slaves were at this time organized as pioneers.

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

VOL. III

CONTENTS

BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AND OTHER POEMS

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER, DECEMBER 15, 1874

"LUCY." FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875

HYMN FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM,

OCTOBER 7, 1875

A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE

JOSEPH WARREN, M. D.

OLD CAMBRIDGE, JULY 3, 1875

WELCOME TO THE NATIONS, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876

A FAMILIAR LETTER

UNSATISFIED

HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET

AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH"

THE FIRST FAN

To R. B. H.

THE SHIP OF STATE

A FAMILY RECORD

THE IRON GATE AND OTHER POEMS. THE IRON GATE VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM MY AVIARY ON THE THRESHOLD TO GEORGE PEABODY AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY TWO SONNETS: HARVARD THE COMING ERA IN RESPONSE FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION THE SCHOOL-BOY THE SILENT MELODY OUR HOME—OUR COUNTRY POEM AT THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY RHYMES OF A LIFE-TIME

BEFORE THE CURFEW AT MY FIRESIDE AT THE SATURDAY CLUB OUR DEAD SINGER. H. W. L. TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. I. AT THE SUMMIT II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE BLIND BOSTON TO FLORENCE AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL, MARCH 8, 1882 POEM FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF HARVARD COLLEGE POST-PRANDIAL: PHI BETA KAPPA, 1881 THE FLANEUR: DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENUS, 1882 AVE KING'S CHAPEL READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY HYMN FOR THE SAME OCCASION HYMN.—THE WORD OF PROMISE HYMN READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT HUDSON, WISCONSIN, JUNE 7, 1887 ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD THE GOLDEN FLOWER HAIL, COLUMBIA! POEM FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S JAMES RUSSELL LO WELL: 1819-1891

POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS. TO THE ELEVEN LADIES WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET CACOETHES SCRIBENDI THE ROSE AND THE FERN I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU LA MAISON D'OR BAR HARBOR TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES TARTARUS AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD INVITA MINERVA

READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS TO MY OLD READERS THE BANKER'S SECRET THE EXILE'S SECRET THE LOVER'S SECRET THE STATESMAN'S SECRET THE MOTHER'S SECRET THE SECRET OF THE STARS

VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO FIRST VERSES: TRANSLATION FROM THE THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR THE TOADSTOOL THE SPECTRE PIG TO A CAGED LION THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE: "A SPANISH GIRL REVERIE" A ROMAN AQUEDUCT FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL LA GRISETTE OUR YANKEE GIRLS L'INCONNUE STANZAS LINES BY A CLERK THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE THE POET'S LOT TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN" IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN A NOONTIDE LYRIC THE HOT SEASON A PORTRAIT AN EVENING THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT SEA THE WASP AND THE HORNET "QUI VIVE?"

NOTES

BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AND OTHER POEMS

1874-1877

GRANDMOTHER'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 story,

To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle;

Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red-coats still;

But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me,

When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.

'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'll 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 live-long day.

No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;

Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling 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 house-hold 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—oh, 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, looking wild upon each other,

And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR HAS COME!

The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel 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 cannon-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!

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,

Round 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 women 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 and answer not.

Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple),

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 'll 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 well-nigh 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 tempest's shroud is rended;

Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!

Oh 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."

Oh 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 again.

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 earth-work 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 'll 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 'll be more trouble afore the job is done";

So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful 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 forming 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.

And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry!

Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he 'll 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 they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,—

And they said, "Oh, 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 winking!" 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-checked, 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 picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,

That—in short, that's why I 'm grandma, and you children all are here!

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 bellows do;

Their legs are uneasy, but why will you jog any

That long to stay quiet beneath the mahogany?

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—never mind—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 shingles '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!

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 felicitous.)

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 elephant,"—

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 writing 'em

And reading to friends as his way of delighting '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 languor 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 etytology

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 prophecy—

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 society

Has forgotten the sense of the word inebriety;

Till the work that poor Hannah and Bridget and Phillis do

The humanized, civilized female gorillas do;

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 vulture do,

All read the "Atlantic" as persons of culture do!

"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'll 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 sear;

Unarmed he battled for the right,

In Duty's never-ending fight.

Unconquered will, unslumbering 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,

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

READ 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 fight 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

Untracked by sight or sound.

What prayers have reached the sapphire throne,

By silent fingers spelt,

For him who first through depths unknown

His doubtful pathway felt,

Who sought the slumbering sense that lay

Close shut with bolt and bar,

And showed awakening thought the ray

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.

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 Rip 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,

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 hapennies in between,

All metal fit 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!

O 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;

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!

Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes,

All but her friendships the nation forgets

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 resound!

Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound

Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell;

Welcome! still whisper the echoes around;

Welcome I 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 pahn 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 entwine,

Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea!

A FAMILIAR LETTER

TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS

YES, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying;

Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?

I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying,

If you'll 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 syllabled mazes,

And take all you want,—not a copper 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,

Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean;

Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero

Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine.

There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother

That boarding-school flavor of which we 're afraid,—

There is "lush" is a good one, and "swirl" 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, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!"

Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions

For winning the laurels to which you aspire,

By docking the tails of the two prepositions

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—'tis far from irrelevant—

By a famous old hand in the arts of design;

'T is only a photographed sketch of an 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 knitting 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 volume of verses:

Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame,

Your poems the eloquent school-boy rehearses,

Her album the school-girl presents for your name;

Each morning the post brings you autograph letters;

You'll answer them promptly,—an hour is n't much

For the honor of sharing a page with your betters,

With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.

Of course you're delighted to serve the committees

That come with requests from the country all round,

You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties

When they've got a new schoolhouse, or poor-house, 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 digitmonstration,

As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or "That Is him!"

But remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous,

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 compulsion

Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre;

It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl's convulsion

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 she;

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 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. m., Old Hiram's nag,

The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer'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,—

O woman, in your hours of ease

So shy with us, so free with these!

"Come on! I 'll bet you two to one

I 'll make him do it!" "Will you? Done!"

What was it who was bound to do?

I 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

Not like the one Mazeppa rode;

Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed,

The wreck of what was once a steed,

Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints;

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 summons stung

As if a battle-trump had rung;

The slumbering instincts long unstirred

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'll lose his hold—he sways and reels—

He'll 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!"

"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'll 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 couldn'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—Jehu—made the prayer!

And this is all I have to say

About that tough old trotting bay,

Huddup! Huddup! G'lang! Good day!

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,

"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 portal,

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 question?

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 goddess,

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. 'T will suit some old

Terrific feminine suburban."

But 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;

"Gods!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "behold!

There! that's what comes of too much larning!"

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 cestus,—

You'll find it handy when you go

To—you know where; it's pure asbestus.

Then Phoebus of the silverr 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 armor;

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 pigeon.

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'll make it beauty's pet and pride,

And you'll 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 Fan's celestial pattern.

So everywhere we find the Fan,—

In lonely isles of the Pacific,

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 fateful!

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 believe;

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,

Words grope and stumble; this will tell their tale

Shorn of all rhetoric, bare of all pretence,

But radiant, warm, with Nature's eloquence.

Look in our eyes! Your welcome waits you there,—

North, South, East, West, from all and everywhere!

THE SHIP OF STATE

A SENTIMENT

This "sentiment" was read on the same occasion as the "Family Record," which immediately follows it. The latter poem is the dutiful tribute of a son to his father and his father's ancestors, residents of Woodstock from its first settlement.

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 explosives 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 jubilee,

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 belong

That steal my breath to hush themselves 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 peaceful grave.

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 violets 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 landscape smiled;

I touch your soil—it knows its children'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 forest'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 skulking 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

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 cheerful 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 tasselled 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 tithing-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-backed pews.

The pastor rises; looks along the seats

With searching eye; each wonted face he meets;

Asks heavenly guidance; finds the chapter'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 my lineage gives me leave to claim,—

The good, grave man that bears the Psalmist's name.

And still in ceaseless round the seasons 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 village 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 came,

Whose peaceful owner bore the Psalmist's name;

The same his own. Well, Israel's glorious 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 calm;

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 memorials 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,—

Those saddening lines beneath, the "Night-Thoughts" lent:

So stands the Soldier's, Surgeon's monument.

Ah! at a glance my filial eye divines

The scholar son in those remembered lines.

The Scholar Son. His hand my footsteps led.

No more the dim unreal past I tread.

O 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 infant dream,

Or climb the hill, or thread the wooded vale,

Or seek the wave where gleams yon distant 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 wine,—

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 remembrance burns;

Still to my lips thy cherished name returns;

Could I but feel thy gracious presence near

Amid the groves that once to thee were dear

Could but my trembling lips with mortal speech

Thy listening ear for one brief moment reach!

How vain the dream! The pallid voyager'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 farewell,—

Now from the margin of the silent sea,

Take my last offering ere I cross to thee!

THE IRON GATE

AND OTHER POEMS

1877-1881

THE IRON GATE

Read at the Breakfast given in honor of Dr. Holmes's Seventieth Birthday by the publishers of the "Atlantic Monthly," Boston, December 3, 1879.

WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting?

Not unfamiliar to my ear his name,

Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting

In days long vanished,—is he still the same,

Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting,

Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought,

Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting,

Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?

Old age, the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know him,—

Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey;

In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem,

Oft have I met him from my earliest day.

In my old AEsop, toiling with his bundle,—

His load of sticks,—politely asking Death,

Who comes when called for,—would he lug or trundle

His fagot for him?—he was scant of breath.

And sad "Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher,"—

Has he not stamped the image on my soul,

In that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher

Sighs o'er the loosened cord, the broken bowl?

Yes, long, indeed, I've known him at a distance,

And now my lifted door-latch shows him here;

I take his shrivelled hand without resistance,

And find him smiling as his step draws near.

What though of gilded baubles he bereaves us,

Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime;

Think of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us,

The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time!

Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant,

Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep,

Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant,

Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep!

Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender,

Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain,

Hands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender,

Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous brain.

Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers,

Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past,

Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers

That warm its creeping life-blood till the last.

Dear to its heart is every loving token

That comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold,

Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken,

Its labors ended and its story told.

Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices,

For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh,

And through the chorus of its jocund voices

Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.

As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying

From some far orb I track our watery sphere,

Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying,

The silvered globule seems a glistening tear.

But Nature lends her mirror of illusion

To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes,

And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion

The wintry landscape and the summer skies.

So when the iron portal shuts behind us,

And life forgets us in its noise and whirl,

Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us,

And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl.

I come not here your morning hour to sadden,

A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,—

I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden

This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.

If word of mine another's gloom has brightened,

Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came;

If hand of mine another's task has lightened,

It felt the guidance that it dares not claim.

But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers,

These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil's release;

These feebler pulses bid me leave to others

The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace.

Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden;

Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre;

Though to your love untiring still beholden,

The curfew tells me—cover up the fire.

And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful,

And warmer heart than look or word can tell,

In simplest phrase—these traitorous eyes are tearful—

Thanks, Brothers, Sisters,—Children,—and farewell!

VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM

AN ACADEMIC POEM

1829-1879

Read at the Commencement Dinner of the Alumni of Harvard

University, June 25, 1879.

WHILE fond, sad memories all around us throng,

Silence were sweeter than the sweetest song;

Yet when the leaves are green and heaven is blue,

The choral tribute of the grove is due,

And when the lengthening nights have chilled the skies,

We fain would hear the song-bird ere be flies,

And greet with kindly welcome, even as now,

The lonely minstrel on his leafless bough.

This is our golden year,—its golden day;

Its bridal memories soon must pass away;

Soon shall its dying music cease to ring,

And every year must loose some silver string,

Till the last trembling chords no longer thrill,—

Hands all at rest and hearts forever still.

A few gray heads have joined the forming line;

We hear our summons,—"Class of 'Twenty-Nine!"

Close on the foremost, and, alas, how few!

Are these "The Boys" our dear old Mother knew?

Sixty brave swimmers. Twenty—something more—

Have passed the stream and reached this frosty shore!

How near the banks these fifty years divide

When memory crosses with a single stride!

'T is the first year of stern "Old Hickory" 's rule

When our good Mother lets us out of school,

Half glad, half sorrowing, it must be confessed,

To leave her quiet lap, her bounteous breast,

Armed with our dainty, ribbon-tied degrees,

Pleased and yet pensive, exiles and A. B.'s.

Look back, O comrades, with your faded eyes,

And see the phantoms as I bid them rise.

Whose smile is that? Its pattern Nature gave,

A sunbeam dancing in a dimpled wave;

KIRKLAND alone such grace from Heaven could win,

His features radiant as the soul within;

That smile would let him through Saint Peter's gate

While sad-eyed martyrs had to stand and wait.

Here flits mercurial Farrar; standing there,

See mild, benignant, cautious, learned Ware,

And sturdy, patient, faithful, honest Hedge,

Whose grinding logic gave our wits their edge;

Ticknor, with honeyed voice and courtly grace;

And Willard, larynxed like a double bass;

And Channing, with his bland, superior look,

Cool as a moonbeam on a frozen brook,

While the pale student, shivering in his shoes,

Sees from his theme the turgid rhetoric ooze;

And the born soldier, fate decreed to wreak

His martial manhood on a class in Greek,

Popkin! How that explosive name recalls

The grand old Busby of our ancient halls

Such faces looked from Skippon's grim platoons,

Such figures rode with Ireton's stout dragoons:

He gave his strength to learning's gentle charms,

But every accent sounded "Shoulder arms!"

Names,—empty names! Save only here and there

Some white-haired listener, dozing in his chair,

Starts at the sound he often used to hear,

And upward slants his Sunday-sermon ear.

And we—our blooming manhood we regain;

Smiling we join the long Commencement train,

One point first battled in discussion hot,—

Shall we wear gowns? and settled: We will not.

How strange the scene,—that noisy boy-debate

Where embryo-speakers learn to rule the State!

This broad-browed youth, sedate and sober-eyed,

Shall wear the ermined robe at Taney's side;

And he, the stripling, smooth of face and slight,

Whose slender form scarce intercepts the light,

Shall rule the Bench where Parsons gave the law,

And sphinx-like sat uncouth, majestic Shaw

Ah, many a star has shed its fatal ray

On names we loved—our brothers—where are they?

Nor these alone; our hearts in silence claim

Names not less dear, unsyllabled by fame.

How brief the space! and yet it sweeps us back

Far, far along our new-born history's track

Five strides like this;—the sachem rules the land;

The Indian wigwams cluster where we stand.

The second. Lo! a scene of deadly strife—

A nation struggling into infant life;

Not yet the fatal game at Yorktown won

Where failing Empire fired its sunset gun.

LANGDON sits restless in the ancient chair,—

Harvard's grave Head,—these echoes heard his prayer

When from yon mansion, dear to memory still,

The banded yeomen marched for Bunker's Hill.

Count on the grave triennial's thick-starred roll

What names were numbered on the lengthening scroll,—

Not unfamiliar in our ears they ring,—

Winthrop, Hale, Eliot, Everett, Dexter, Tyng.

Another stride. Once more at 'twenty-nine,—

GOD SAVE KING GEORGE, the Second of his line!

And is Sir Isaac living? Nay, not so,—

He followed Flainsteed two short years ago,—

And what about the little hump-backed man

Who pleased the bygone days of good Queen Anne?

What, Pope? another book he's just put out,—

"The Dunciad,"—witty, but profane, no doubt.

Where's Cotton Mather? he was always here.

And so he would be, but he died last year.

Who is this preacher our Northampton claims,

Whose rhetoric blazes with sulphureous flames

And torches stolen from Tartarean mines?

Edwards, the salamander of divines.

A deep, strong nature, pure and undefiled;

Faith, firm as his who stabbed his sleeping child;

Alas for him who blindly strays apart,

And seeking God has lost his human heart!

Fall where they might, no flying cinders caught

These sober halls where WADSWORTH ruled and

taught.

One footstep more; the fourth receding stride

Leaves the round century on the nearer side.

GOD SAVE KING CHARLES! God knows that pleasant knave

His grace will find it hard enough to save.

Ten years and more, and now the Plague, the Fire,

Talk of all tongues, at last begin to tire;

One fear prevails, all other frights forgot,—

White lips are whispering,—hark! The Popish Plot!

Happy New England, from such troubles free

In health and peace beyond the stormy sea!

No Romish daggers threat her children's throats,

No gibbering nightmare mutters "Titus Oates;"

Philip is slain, the Quaker graves are green,

Not yet the witch has entered on the scene;

Happy our Harvard; pleased her graduates four;

URIAN OAKES the name their parchments bore.

Two centuries past, our hurried feet arrive

At the last footprint of the scanty five;

Take the fifth stride; our wandering eyes explore

A tangled forest on a trackless shore;

Here, where we stand, the savage sorcerer howls,

The wild cat snarls, the stealthy gray wolf prowls,

The slouching bear, perchance the trampling moose

Starts the brown squaw and scares her red pappoose;

At every step the lurking foe is near;

His Demons reign; God has no temple here!

Lift up your eyes! behold these pictured walls;

Look where the flood of western glory falls

Through the great sunflower disk of blazing panes

In ruby, saffron, azure, emerald stains;

With reverent step the marble pavement tread

Where our proud Mother's martyr-roll is read;

See the great halls that cluster, gathering round

This lofty shrine with holiest memories crowned;

See the fair Matron in her summer bower,

Fresh as a rose in bright perennial flower;

Read on her standard, always in the van,

"TRUTH,"—the one word that makes a slave a man;

Think whose the hands that fed her altar-fires,

Then count the debt we owe our scholar-sires!

Brothers, farewell! the fast declining ray

Fades to the twilight of our golden day;

Some lesson yet our wearied brains may learn,

Some leaves, perhaps, in life's thin volume turn.

How few they seem as in our waning age

We count them backwards to the title-page!

Oh let us trust with holy men of old

Not all the story here begun is told;

So the tired spirit, waiting to be freed,

On life's last leaf with tranquil eye shall read

By the pale glimmer of the torch reversed,

Not Finis, but The End of Volume First!

MY AVIARY

Through my north window, in the wintry weather,—

My airy oriel on the river shore,—

I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together

Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen,

Lets the loose water waft him as it will;

The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden,

Paddles and plunges, busy, busy still.

I see the solemn gulls in council sitting

On some broad ice-floe pondering long and late,

While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting,

And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving

Whose deeper meaning science never learns,

Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving,

The speechless senate silently adjourns.

But when along the waves the shrill north-easter

Shrieks through the laboring coaster's shrouds "Beware!"

The pale bird, kindling like a Christmas feaster

When some wild chorus shakes the vinous air,

Flaps from the leaden wave in fierce rejoicing,

Feels heaven's dumb lightning thrill his torpid nerves,

Now on the blast his whistling plumage poising,

Now wheeling, whirling in fantastic curves.

Such is our gull; a gentleman of leisure,

Less fleshed than feathered; bagged you'll find him such;

His virtue silence; his employment pleasure;

Not bad to look at, and not good for much.

What of our duck? He has some high-bred cousins,—

His Grace the Canvas-back, My Lord the Brant,—

Anas and Anser,—both served up by dozens,

At Boston's Rocher, half-way to Nahant.

As for himself, he seems alert and thriving,—

Grubs up a living somehow—what, who knows?

Crabs? mussels? weeds?—Look quick! there 's one just diving!

Flop! Splash! his white breast glistens—down he goes!

And while he 's under—just about a minute—

I take advantage of the fact to say

His fishy carcase has no virtue in it

The gunning idiot's worthless hire to pay.

Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him!

Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes;

Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him,

One cannot always miss him if he tries.

He knows you! "sportsmen" from suburban alleys,

Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt;

Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies

Forth to waste powder—as he says, to "hunt."

I watch you with a patient satisfaction,

Well pleased to discount your predestined luck;

The float that figures in your sly transaction

Will carry back a goose, but not a duck.

Look! there's a young one, dreaming not of danger;

Sees a flat log come floating down the stream;

Stares undismayed upon the harmless stranger;

Ah! were all strangers harmless as they seem!

Habet! a leaden shower his breast has shattered;

Vainly he flutters, not again to rise;

His soft white plumes along the waves are scattered;

Helpless the wing that braved the tempest lies.

He sees his comrades high above him flying

To seek their nests among the island reeds;

Strong is their flight; all lonely he is lying

Washed by the crimsoned water as he bleeds.

O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow,

Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget?

Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrow

Its one long column scores thy creatures' debt?

Poor gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished,

A world grows dark with thee in blinding death;

One little gasp—thy universe has perished,

Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

Is this the whole sad story of creation,

Lived by its breathing myriads o'er and o'er,—

One glimpse of day, then black annihilation,—

A sunlit passage to a sunless shore?

Give back our faith, ye mystery-solving lynxes!

Robe us once more in heaven-aspiring creeds

Happier was dreaming Egypt with her sphinxes,

The stony convent with its cross and beads!

How often gazing where a bird reposes,

Rocked on the wavelets, drifting with the tide,

I lose myself in strange metempsychosis

And float a sea-fowl at a sea-fowl's side;

From rain, hail, snow in feathery mantle muffled,

Clear-eyed, strong-limbed, with keenest sense to hear

My mate soft murmuring, who, with plumes unruffled,

Where'er I wander still is nestling near;

The great blue hollow like a garment o'er me;

Space all unmeasured, unrecorded time;

While seen with inward eye moves on before me

Thought's pictured train in wordless pantomime.

A voice recalls me.—From my window turning

I find myself a plumeless biped still;

No beak, no claws, no sign of wings discerning,—

In fact with nothing bird-like but my quill.

ON THE THRESHOLD

INTRODUCTION TO A COLLECTION OF POEMS BYDIFFERENT AUTHORS

AN usher standing at the door

I show my white rosette;

A smile of welcome, nothing more,

Will pay my trifling debt;

Why should I bid you idly wait

Like lovers at the swinging gate?

Can I forget the wedding guest?

The veteran of the sea?

In vain the listener smites his breast,—

"There was a ship," cries he!

Poor fasting victim, stunned and pale,

He needs must listen to the tale.

He sees the gilded throng within,

The sparkling goblets gleam,

The music and the merry din

Through every window stream,

But there he shivers in the cold

Till all the crazy dream is told.

Not mine the graybeard's glittering eye

That held his captive still

To hold my silent prisoners by

And let me have my will;

Nay, I were like the three-years' child,

To think you could be so beguiled!

My verse is but the curtain's fold

That hides the painted scene,

The mist by morning's ray unrolled

That veils the meadow's green,

The cloud that needs must drift away

To show the rose of opening day.

See, from the tinkling rill you hear

In hollowed palm I bring

These scanty drops, but ah, how near

The founts that heavenward spring!

Thus, open wide the gates are thrown

And founts and flowers are all your own!

TO GEORGE PEABODY

DANVERS, 1866

BANKRUPT! our pockets inside out!

Empty of words to speak his praises!

Worcester and Webster up the spout!

Dead broke of laudatory phrases!

Yet why with flowery speeches tease,

With vain superlatives distress him?

Has language better words than these?

THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!

A simple prayer—but words more sweet

By human lips were never uttered,

Since Adam left the country seat

Where angel wings around him fluttered.

The old look on with tear-dimmed eyes,

The children cluster to caress him,

And every voice unbidden cries,

THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!

AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB

A LOVELY show for eyes to see

I looked upon this morning,—

A bright-hued, feathered company

Of nature's own adorning;

But ah! those minstrels would not sing

A listening ear while I lent,—

The lark sat still and preened his wing,

The nightingale was silent;

I longed for what they gave me not—

Their warblings sweet and fluty,

But grateful still for all I got

I thanked them for their beauty.

A fairer vision meets my view

Of Claras, Margarets, Marys,

In silken robes of varied hue,

Like bluebirds and canaries;

The roses blush, the jewels gleam,

The silks and satins glisten,

The black eyes flash, the blue eyes beam,

We look—and then we listen

Behold the flock we cage to-night—

Was ever such a capture?

To see them is a pure delight;

To hear them—ah! what rapture!

Methinks I hear Delilah's laugh

At Samson bound in fetters;

"We captured!" shrieks each lovelier half,

"Men think themselves our betters!

We push the bolt, we turn the key

On warriors, poets, sages,

Too happy, all of them, to be

Locked in our golden cages!"

Beware! the boy with bandaged eyes

Has flung away his blinder;

He 's lost his mother—so he cries—

And here he knows he'll find her:

The rogue! 't is but a new device,—

Look out for flying arrows

Whene'er the birds of Paradise

Are perched amid the sparrows!

FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

DECEMBER 17, 1877

I BELIEVE that the copies of verses I've spun,

Like Scheherezade's tales, are a thousand and one;

You remember the story,—those mornings in bed,—

'T was the turn of a copper,—a tale or a head.

A doom like Scheherezade's falls upon me

In a mandate as stern as the Sultan's decree

I'm a florist in verse, and what would people say

If I came to a banquet without my bouquet?

It is trying, no doubt, when the company knows

Just the look and the smell of each lily and rose,

The green of each leaf in the sprigs that I bring,

And the shape of the bunch and the knot of the string.

Yes,—"the style is the man," and the nib of one's pen

Makes the same mark at twenty, and threescore and ten;

It is so in all matters, if truth may be told;

Let one look at the cast he can tell you the mould.

How we all know each other! no use in disguise;

Through the holes in the mask comes the flash of the eyes;

We can tell by his—somewhat—each one of our tribe,

As we know the old hat which we cannot describe.

Though in Hebrew, in Sanscrit, in Choctaw you write,

Sweet singer who gave us the Voices of Night,

Though in buskin or slipper your song may be shod;

Or the velvety verse that Evangeline trod,

We shall say, "You can't cheat us,—we know it is you,"

There is one voice like that, but there cannot be two,

Maestro, whose chant like the dulcimer rings

And the woods will be hushed while the nightingale sings.

And he, so serene, so majestic, so true,

Whose temple hypethral the planets shine through,

Let us catch but five words from that mystical pen,

We should know our one sage from all children of men.

And he whose bright image no distance can dim,

Through a hundred disguises we can't mistake him,

Whose play is all earnest, whose wit is the edge

(With a beetle behind) of a sham-splitting wedge.

Do you know whom we send you, Hidalgos of Spain?

Do you know your old friends when you see them again?

Hosea was Sancho! you Dons of Madrid,

But Sancho that wielded the lance of the Cid!

And the wood-thrush of Essex,—you know whom I mean,

Whose song echoes round us while he sits unseen,

Whose heart-throbs of verse through our memories thrill

Like a breath from the wood, like a breeze from the hill,

So fervid, so simple, so loving, so pure,

We hear but one strain and our verdict is sure,—

Thee cannot elude us,—no further we search,—

'T is Holy George Herbert cut loose from his church!

We think it the voice of a seraph that sings,—

Alas! we remember that angels have wings,—

What story is this of the day of his birth?

Let him live to a hundred! we want him on earth!

One life has been paid him (in gold) by the sun;

One account has been squared and another begun;

But he never will die if he lingers below

Till we've paid him in love half the balance we owe!

TWO SONNETS: HARVARD

At the meeting of the New York Harvard Club,

February 21, 1878.

"CHRISTO ET ECCLESLE." 1700

To GOD'S ANOINTED AND HIS CHOSEN FLOCK

So ran the phrase the black-robed conclave chose

To guard the sacred cloisters that arose

Like David's altar on Moriah's rock.

Unshaken still those ancient arches mock

The ram's-horn summons of the windy foes

Who stand like Joshua's army while it blows

And wait to see them toppling with the shock.

Christ and the Church. Their church, whose narrow door

Shut out the many, who if overbold

Like hunted wolves were driven from the fold,

Bruised with the flails these godly zealots bore,

Mindful that Israel's altar stood of old

Where echoed once Araunah's threshing-floor.

1643 "VERITAS." 1878

TRUTH: So the frontlet's older legend ran,

On the brief record's opening page displayed;

Not yet those clear-eyed scholars were afraid

Lest the fair fruit that wrought the woe of man

By far Euphrates—where our sire began

His search for truth, and, seeking, was betrayed—

Might work new treason in their forest shade,

Doubling the curse that brought life's shortened span.

Nurse of the future, daughter of the past,

That stern phylactery best becomes thee now

Lift to the morning star thy marble brow

Cast thy brave truth on every warring blast!

Stretch thy white hand to that forbidden bough,

And let thine earliest symbol be thy last!

THE COMING ERA

THEY tell us that the Muse is soon to fly hence,

Leaving the bowers of song that once were dear,

Her robes bequeathing to her sister, Science,

The groves of Pindus for the axe to clear.

Optics will claim the wandering eye of fancy,

Physics will grasp imagination's wings,

Plain fact exorcise fiction's necromancy,

The workshop hammer where the minstrel sings,

No more with laugher at Thalia's frolics

Our eyes shall twinkle till the tears run down,

But in her place the lecturer on hydraulics

Spout forth his watery science to the town.

No more our foolish passions and affections

The tragic Muse with mimic grief shall try,

But, nobler far, a course of vivisections

Teach what it costs a tortured brute to die.

The unearthed monad, long in buried rocks hid,

Shall tell the secret whence our being came;

The chemist show us death is life's black oxide,

Left when the breath no longer fans its flame.

Instead of crack-brained poets in their attics

Filling thin volumes with their flowery talk,

There shall be books of wholesome mathematics;

The tutor with his blackboard and his chalk.

No longer bards with madrigal and sonnet

Shall woo to moonlight walks the ribboned sex,

But side by side the beaver and the bonnet

Stroll, calmly pondering on some problem's x.

The sober bliss of serious calculation

Shall mock the trivial joys that fancy drew,

And, oh, the rapture of a solved equation,—

One self-same answer on the lips of two!

So speak in solemn tones our youthful sages,

Patient, severe, laborious, slow, exact,

As o'er creation's protoplasmic pages

They browse and munch the thistle crops of fact.

And yet we 've sometimes found it rather pleasant

To dream again the scenes that Shakespeare drew,—

To walk the hill-side with the Scottish peasant

Among the daisies wet with morning's dew;

To leave awhile the daylight of the real,

Led by the guidance of the master's hand,

For the strange radiance of the far ideal,—

"The light that never was on sea or land."

Well, Time alone can lift the future's curtain,—

Science may teach our children all she knows,

But Love will kindle fresh young hearts, 't is certain,

And June will not forget her blushing rose.

And so, in spite of all that Time is bringing,—

Treasures of truth and miracles of art,

Beauty and Love will keep the poet singing,

And song still live, the science of the heart.

IN RESPONSE

Breakfast at the Century Club, New York, May, 1879.

SUCH kindness! the scowl of a cynic would soften,

His pulse beat its way to some eloquent words,

Alas! my poor accents have echoed too often,

Like that Pinafore music you've some of you heard.

Do you know me, dear strangers—the hundredth time comer

At banquets and feasts since the days of my Spring?

Ah! would I could borrow one rose of my Summer,

But this is a leaf of my Autumn I bring.

I look at your faces,—I'm sure there are some from

The three-breasted mother I count as my own;

You think you remember the place you have come from,

But how it has changed in the years that have flown!

Unaltered, 't is true, is the hall we call "Funnel,"

Still fights the "Old South" in the battle for life,

But we've opened our door to the West through the tunnel,

And we've cut off Fort Hill with our Amazon knife.

You should see the new Westminster Boston has builded,—

Its mansions, its spires, its museums of arts,—

You should see the great dome we have gorgeously gilded,—

'T is the light of our eyes, 't is the joy of our hearts.

When first in his path a young asteroid found it,

As he sailed through the skies with the stars in his wake,

He thought 't was the sun, and kept circling around it

Till Edison signalled, "You've made a mistake."

We are proud of our city,—her fast-growing figure,

The warp and the woof of her brain and her hands,—

But we're proudest of all that her heart has grown bigger,

And warms with fresh blood as her girdle expands.

One lesson the rubric of conflict has taught her

Though parted awhile by war's earth-rending shock,

The lines that divide us are written in water,

The love that unites us cut deep in the rock.

As well might the Judas of treason endeavor

To write his black name on the disk of the sun

As try the bright star-wreath that binds us to sever

And blot the fair legend of "Many in One."

We love You, tall sister, the stately, the splendid,—

The banner of empire floats high on your towers,

Yet ever in welcome your arms are extended,—

We share in your splendors, your glory is ours.

Yes, Queen of the Continent! All of us own thee,—

The gold-freighted argosies flock at thy call,

The naiads, the sea-nymphs have met to enthrone thee,

But the Broadway of one is the Highway of all!

I thank you. Three words that can hardly be mended,

Though phrases on phrases their eloquence pile,

If you hear the heart's throb with their eloquence blended,

And read all they mean in a sunshiny smile.

FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

MAY 28, 1879.

ENCHANTER of Erin, whose magic has bound us,

Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim,

Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us

That blush into life at the sound of thy name.

The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers,—

I hear the old song with its tender refrain,—

What passion lies hid in those honey-voiced numbers

What perfume of youth in each exquisite strain!

The home of my childhood comes back as a vision,—

Hark! Hark! A soft chord from its song-haunted room,—

'T is a morning of May, when the air is Elysian,—

The syringa in bud and the lilac in bloom,—

We are clustered around the "Clementi" piano,—

There were six of us then,—there are two of us now,—

She is singing—the girl with the silver soprano—

How "The Lord of the Valley" was false to his vow;

"Let Erin remember" the echoes are calling;

Through "The Vale of Avoca" the waters are rolled;

"The Exile" laments while the night-dews falling;

"The Morning of Life" dawns again as of old.

But ah! those warm love-songs of fresh adolescence!

Around us such raptures celestial they flung

That it seemed as if Paradise breathed its quintessence

Through the seraph-toned lips of the maiden that sung!

Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted

As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred,

Yet still with their music is memory haunted,

And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard.

I feel like the priest to his altar returning,—

The crowd that was kneeling no longer is there,

The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning,

And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the air.

II.

The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving

In her azure-domed hall with its tapestried floor,

And Spring the last tear-drop of May-dew is leaving

On the daisy of Burns and the shamrock of Moore.

How like, how unlike, as we view them together,

The song of the minstrels whose record we scan,—

One fresh as the breeze blowing over the heather,

One sweet as the breath from an odalisque's fan!

Ah, passion can glow mid a palace's splendor;

The cage does not alter the song of the bird;

And the curtain of silk has known whispers as tender

As ever the blossoming hawthorn has heard.

No fear lest the step of the soft-slippered Graces

Should fright the young Loves from their warm little nest,

For the heart of a queen, under jewels and laces,

Beats time with the pulse in the peasant girl's breast!

Thrice welcome each gift of kind Nature's bestowing!

Her fountain heeds little the goblet we hold;

Alike, when its musical waters are flowing,

The shell from the seaside, the chalice of gold.

The twins of the lyre to her voices had listened;

Both laid their best gifts upon Liberty's shrine;

For Coila's loved minstrel the holly-wreath glistened;

For Erin's the rose and the myrtle entwine.

And while the fresh blossoms of summer are braided

For the sea-girdled, stream-silvered, lake-jewelled isle,

While her mantle of verdure is woven unfaded,

While Shannon and Liffey shall dimple and smile,

The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was planted,

Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the shore,

The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted,

Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of Moore!

TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

APRIL 4, 1880

I BRING the simplest pledge of love,

Friend of my earlier days;

Mine is the hand without the glove,

The heart-beat, not the phrase.

How few still breathe this mortal air

We called by school-boy names!

You still, whatever robe you wear,

To me are always James.

That name the kind apostle bore

Who shames the sullen creeds,

Not trusting less, but loving more,

And showing faith by deeds.

What blending thoughts our memories share!

What visions yours and mine

Of May-days in whose morning air

The dews were golden wine,

Of vistas bright with opening day,

Whose all-awakening sun

Showed in life's landscape, far away,

The summits to be won!

The heights are gained. Ah, say not so

For him who smiles at time,

Leaves his tired comrades down below,

And only lives to climb!

His labors,—will they ever cease,—

With hand and tongue and pen?

Shall wearied Nature ask release

At threescore years and ten?

Our strength the clustered seasons tax,—

For him new life they mean;

Like rods around the lictor's axe

They keep him bright and keen.

The wise, the brave, the strong, we know,—

We mark them here or there,

But he,—we roll our eyes, and lo!

We find him everywhere!

With truth's bold cohorts, or alone,

He strides through error's field;

His lance is ever manhood's own,

His breast is woman's shield.

Count not his years while earth has need

Of souls that Heaven inflames

With sacred zeal to save, to lead,—

Long live our dear Saint James!

WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB

January 14, 1880

CHICAGO sounds rough to the maker of verse;

One comfort we have—Cincinnati sounds worse;

If we only were licensed to say Chicago!

But Worcester and Webster won't let us, you know.

No matter, we songsters must sing as we can;

We can make some nice couplets with Lake Michigan,

And what more resembles a nightingale's voice,

Than the oily trisyllable, sweet Illinois?

Your waters are fresh, while our harbor is salt,

But we know you can't help it—it is n't your fault;

Our city is old and your city is new,

But the railroad men tell us we're greener than you.

You have seen our gilt dome, and no doubt you've been told

That the orbs of the universe round it are rolled;

But I'll own it to you, and I ought to know best,

That this is n't quite true of all stars of the West.

You'll go to Mount Auburn,—we'll show you the track,—

And can stay there,—unless you prefer to come back;

And Bunker's tall shaft you can climb if you will,

But you'll puff like a paragraph praising a pill.

You must see—but you have seen—our old Faneuil Hall,

Our churches, our school-rooms, our sample-rooms, all;

And, perhaps, though the idiots must have their jokes,

You have found our good people much like other folks.

There are cities by rivers, by lakes, and by seas,

Each as full of itself as a cheese-mite of cheese;

And a city will brag as a game-cock will crow

Don't your cockerels at home—just a little, you know?

But we'll crow for you now—here's a health to the boys,

Men, maidens, and matrons of fair Illinois,

And the rainbow of friendship that arches its span

From the green of the sea to the blue Michigan!

AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

MAY 26, 1880

SIRE, son, and grandson; so the century glides;

Three lives, three strides, three foot-prints in the sand;

Silent as midnight's falling meteor slides

Into the stillness of the far-off land;

How dim the space its little arc has spanned!

See on this opening page the names renowned

Tombed in these records on our dusty shelves,

Scarce on the scroll of living memory found,

Save where the wan-eyed antiquarian delves;

Shadows they seem; ab, what are we ourselves?

Pale ghosts of Bowdoin, Winthrop, Willard, West,

Sages of busy brain and wrinkled brow,

Searchers of Nature's secrets unconfessed,

Asking of all things Whence and Why and How—

What problems meet your larger vision now?

Has Gannett tracked the wild Aurora's path?

Has Bowdoin found his all-surrounding sphere?

What question puzzles ciphering Philomath?

Could Williams make the hidden causes clear

Of the Dark Day that filled the land with fear?

Dear ancient school-boys! Nature taught to them

The simple lessons of the star and flower,

Showed them strange sights; how on a single stem,—

Admire the marvels of Creative Power!—

Twin apples grew, one sweet, the other sour;

How from the hill-top where our eyes beheld

In even ranks the plumed and bannered maize

Range its long columns, in the days of old

The live volcano shot its angry blaze,—

Dead since the showers of Noah's watery days;

How, when the lightning split the mighty rock,

The spreading fury of the shaft was spent!

How the young scion joined the alien stock,

And when and where the homeless swallows went

To pass the winter of their discontent.

Scant were the gleanings in those years of dearth;

No Cuvier yet had clothed the fossil bones

That slumbered, waiting for their second birth;

No Lyell read the legend of the stones;

Science still pointed to her empty thrones.

Dreaming of orbs to eyes of earth unknown,

Herschel looked heavenwards in the starlight pale;

Lost in those awful depths he trod alone,

Laplace stood mute before the lifted veil;

While home-bred Humboldt trimmed his toy ship's sail.

No mortal feet these loftier heights had gained

Whence the wide realms of Nature we descry;

In vain their eyes our longing fathers strained

To scan with wondering gaze the summits high

That far beneath their children's footpaths lie.

Smile at their first small ventures as we may,

The school-boy's copy shapes the scholar's hand,

Their grateful memory fills our hearts to-day;

Brave, hopeful, wise, this bower of peace they planned,

While war's dread ploughshare scarred the suffering land.

Child of our children's children yet unborn,

When on this yellow page you turn your eyes,

Where the brief record of this May-day morn

In phrase antique and faded letters lies,

How vague, how pale our flitting ghosts will rise!

Yet in our veins the blood ran warm and red,

For us the fields were green, the skies were blue,

Though from our dust the spirit long has fled,

We lived, we loved, we toiled, we dreamed like you,

Smiled at our sires and thought how much we knew.

Oh might our spirits for one hour return,

When the next century rounds its hundredth ring,

All the strange secrets it shall teach to learn,

To hear the larger truths its years shall bring,

Its wiser sages talk, its sweeter minstrels sing!

THE SCHOOL-BOY

Read at the Centennial Celebration of the foundation of Phillips Academy, Andover.

1778-1878

THESE hallowed precincts, long to memory dear,

Smile with fresh welcome as our feet draw near;

With softer gales the opening leaves are fanned,

With fairer hues the kindling flowers expand,

The rose-bush reddens with the blush of June,

The groves are vocal with their minstrels' tune,

The mighty elm, beneath whose arching shade

The wandering children of the forest strayed,

Greets the bright morning in its bridal dress,

And spreads its arms the gladsome dawn to bless.

Is it an idle dream that nature shares

Our joys, our griefs, our pastimes, and our cares?

Is there no summons when, at morning's call,

The sable vestments of the darkness fall?

Does not meek evening's low-voiced Ave blend

With the soft vesper as its notes ascend?

Is there no whisper in the perfumed air

When the sweet bosom of the rose is bare?

Does not the sunshine call us to rejoice?

Is there no meaning in the storm-cloud's voice?

No silent message when from midnight skies

Heaven looks upon us with its myriad eyes?

Or shift the mirror; say our dreams diffuse

O'er life's pale landscape their celestial hues,

Lend heaven the rainbow it has never known,

And robe the earth in glories not its own,

Sing their own music in the summer breeze,

With fresher foliage clothe the stately trees,

Stain the June blossoms with a livelier dye

And spread a bluer azure on the sky,—

Blest be the power that works its lawless will

And finds the weediest patch an Eden still;

No walls so fair as those our fancies build,—

No views so bright as those our visions gild!

So ran my lines, as pen and paper met,

The truant goose-quill travelling like Planchette;

Too ready servant, whose deceitful ways

Full many a slipshod line, alas! betrays;

Hence of the rhyming thousand not a few

Have builded worse—a great deal—than they knew.

What need of idle fancy to adorn

Our mother's birthplace on her birthday morn?

Hers are the blossoms of eternal spring,

From these green boughs her new-fledged birds take wing,

These echoes hear their earliest carols sung,

In this old nest the brood is ever young.

If some tired wanderer, resting from his flight,

Amid the gay young choristers alight,

These gather round him, mark his faded plumes

That faintly still the far-off grove perfumes,

And listen, wondering if some feeble note

Yet lingers, quavering in his weary throat:—

I, whose fresh voice yon red-faced temple knew,

What tune is left me, fit to sing to you?

Ask not the grandeurs of a labored song,

But let my easy couplets slide along;

Much could I tell you that you know too well;

Much I remember, but I will not tell;

Age brings experience; graybeards oft are wise,

But oh! how sharp a youngster's ears and eyes!

My cheek was bare of adolescent down

When first I sought the academic town;

Slow rolls the coach along the dusty road,

Big with its filial and parental load;

The frequent hills, the lonely woods are past,

The school-boy's chosen home is reached at last.

I see it now, the same unchanging spot,

The swinging gate, the little garden plot,

The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor,

The flat, pale house, the knocker-garnished door,

The small, trim parlor, neat, decorous, chill,

The strange, new faces, kind, but grave and still;

Two, creased with age,—or what I then called age,—

Life's volume open at its fiftieth page;

One, a shy maiden's, pallid, placid, sweet

As the first snow-drop, which the sunbeams greet;

One, the last nursling's; slight she was, and fair,

Her smooth white forehead warmed with auburn hair;

Last came the virgin Hymen long had spared,

Whose daily cares the grateful household shared,

Strong, patient, humble; her substantial frame

Stretched the chaste draperies I forbear to name.

Brave, but with effort, had the school-boy come

To the cold comfort of a stranger's home;

How like a dagger to my sinking heart

Came the dry summons, "It is time to part;

Good-by!" "Goo-ood-by!" one fond maternal kiss. . . .

Homesick as death! Was ever pang like this?

Too young as yet with willing feet to stray

From the tame fireside, glad to get away,—

Too old to let my watery grief appear,—

And what so bitter as a swallowed tear!

One figure still my vagrant thoughts pursue;

First boy to greet me, Ariel, where are you?

Imp of all mischief, heaven alone knows how

You learned it all,—are you an angel now,

Or tottering gently down the slope of years,

Your face grown sober in the vale of tears?

Forgive my freedom if you are breathing still;

If in a happier world, I know you will.

You were a school-boy—what beneath the sun

So like a monkey? I was also one.

Strange, sure enough, to see what curious shoots

The nursery raises from the study's roots!

In those old days the very, very good

Took up more room—a little—than they should;

Something too much one's eyes encountered then

Of serious youth and funeral-visaged men;

The solemn elders saw life's mournful half,—

Heaven sent this boy, whose mission was to laugh,

Drollest of buffos, Nature's odd protest,

A catbird squealing in a blackbird's nest.

Kind, faithful Nature! While the sour-eyed Scot—

Her cheerful smiles forbidden or forgot—

Talks only of his preacher and his kirk,—

Hears five-hour sermons for his Sunday work,—

Praying and fasting till his meagre face

Gains its due length, the genuine sign of grace,—

An Ayrshire mother in the land of Knox

Her embryo poet in his cradle rocks;—

Nature, long shivering in her dim eclipse,

Steals in a sunbeam to those baby lips;

So to its home her banished smile returns,

And Scotland sweetens with the song of Burns!

The morning came; I reached the classic hall;

A clock-face eyed me, staring from the wall;

Beneath its hands a printed line I read

YOUTH IS LIFE'S SEED-TIME: so the clock-face said:

Some took its counsel, as the sequel showed,—

Sowed,—their wild oats,—and reaped as they had sowed.

How all comes back! the upward slanting floor,—

The masters' thrones that flank the central door,—

The long, outstretching alleys that divide

The rows of desks that stand on either side,—

The staring boys, a face to every desk,

Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque.

Grave is the Master's look; his forehead wears

Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares;

Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule,

His most of all whose kingdom is a school.

Supreme he sits; before the awful frown

That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down;

Not more submissive Israel heard and saw

At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law.

Less stern he seems, who sits in equal Mate

On the twin throne and shares the empire's weight;

Around his lips the subtle life that plays

Steals quaintly forth in many a jesting phrase;

A lightsome nature, not so hard to chafe,

Pleasant when pleased; rough-handled, not so safe;

Some tingling memories vaguely I recall,

But to forgive him. God forgive us all!

One yet remains, whose well-remembered name

Pleads in my grateful heart its tender claim;

His was the charm magnetic, the bright look

That sheds its sunshine on the dreariest book;

A loving soul to every task he brought

That sweetly mingled with the lore he taught;

Sprung from a saintly race that never could

From youth to age be anything but good,

His few brief years in holiest labors spent,

Earth lost too soon the treasure heaven had lent.

Kindest of teachers, studious to divine

Some hint of promise in my earliest line,

These faint and faltering words thou canst not hear

Throb from a heart that holds thy memory dear.

As to the traveller's eye the varied plain

Shows through the window of the flying train,

A mingled landscape, rather felt than seen,

A gravelly bank, a sudden flash of green,

A tangled wood, a glittering stream that flows

Through the cleft summit where the cliff once rose,

All strangely blended in a hurried gleam,

Rock, wood, waste, meadow, village, hill-side, stream,—

So, as we look behind us, life appears,

Seen through the vista of our bygone years.

Yet in the dead past's shadow-filled domain,

Some vanished shapes the hues of life retain;

Unbidden, oft, before our dreaming eyes

From the vague mists in memory's path they rise.

So comes his blooming image to my view,

The friend of joyous days when life was new,

Hope yet untamed, the blood of youth unchilled,

No blank arrear of promise unfulfilled,

Life's flower yet hidden in its sheltering fold,

Its pictured canvas yet to be unrolled.

His the frank smile I vainly look to greet,

His the warm grasp my clasping hand should meet;

How would our lips renew their school-boy talk,

Our feet retrace the old familiar walk!

For thee no more earth's cheerful morning shines

Through the green fringes of the tented pines;

Ah me! is heaven so far thou canst not hear,

Or is thy viewless spirit hovering near,

A fair young presence, bright with morning's glow,

The fresh-cheeked boy of fifty years ago?

Yes, fifty years, with all their circling suns,

Behind them all my glance reverted runs;

Where now that time remote, its griefs, its joys,

Where are its gray-haired men, its bright-haired boys?

Where is the patriarch time could hardly tire,—

The good old, wrinkled, immemorial "squire "?

(An honest treasurer, like a black-plumed swan,

Not every day our eyes may look upon.)

Where the tough champion who, with Calvin's sword,

In wordy conflicts battled for the Lord?

Where the grave scholar, lonely, calm, austere,

Whose voice like music charmed the listening ear,

Whose light rekindled, like the morning star

Still shines upon us through the gates ajar?

Where the still, solemn, weary, sad-eyed man,

Whose care-worn face and wandering eyes would scan,—

His features wasted in the lingering strife

With the pale foe that drains the student's life?

Where my old friend, the scholar, teacher, saint,

Whose creed, some hinted, showed a speck of taint;

He broached his own opinion, which is not

Lightly to be forgiven or forgot;

Some riddle's point,—I scarce remember now,—

Homoi-, perhaps, where they said homo-ou.

(If the unlettered greatly wish to know

Where lies the difference betwixt oi and o,

Those of the curious who have time may search

Among the stale conundrums of their church.)

Beneath his roof his peaceful life I shared,

And for his modes of faith I little cared,—

I, taught to judge men's dogmas by their deeds,

Long ere the days of india-rubber creeds.

Why should we look one common faith to find,

Where one in every score is color-blind?

If here on earth they know not red from green,

Will they see better into things unseen!

Once more to time's old graveyard I return

And scrape the moss from memory's pictured urn.

Who, in these days when all things go by steam,

Recalls the stage-coach with its four-horse team?

Its sturdy driver,—who remembers him?

Or the old landlord, saturnine and grim,

Who left our hill-top for a new abode

And reared his sign-post farther down the road?

Still in the waters of the dark Shawshine

Do the young bathers splash and think they're clean?

Do pilgrims find their way to Indian Ridge,

Or journey onward to the far-off bridge,

And bring to younger ears the story back

Of the broad stream, the mighty Merrimac?

Are there still truant feet that stray beyond

These circling bounds to Pomp's or Haggett's Pond,

Or where the legendary name recalls

The forest's earlier tenant,—"Deerjump Falls"?

Yes, every nook these youthful feet explore,

Just as our sires and grand sires did of yore;

So all life's opening paths, where nature led

Their father's feet, the children's children tread.

Roll the round century's fivescore years away,

Call from our storied past that earliest day

When great Eliphalet (I can see him now,—

Big name, big frame, big voice, and beetling brow),

Then young Eliphalet,—ruled the rows of boys

In homespun gray or old-world corduroys,—

And save for fashion's whims, the benches show

The self-same youths, the very boys we know.

Time works strange marvels: since I trod the green

And swung the gates, what wonders I have seen!

But come what will,—the sky itself may fall,—

As things of course the boy accepts them all.

The prophet's chariot, drawn by steeds of flame,

For daily use our travelling millions claim;

The face we love a sunbeam makes our own;

No more the surgeon hears the sufferer's groan;

What unwrit histories wrapped in darkness lay

Till shovelling Schliemann bared them to the day!

Your Richelieu says, and says it well, my lord,

The pen is (sometimes) mightier than the sword;

Great is the goosequill, say we all; Amen!

Sometimes the spade is mightier than the pen;

It shows where Babel's terraced walls were raised,

The slabs that cracked when Nimrod's palace blazed,

Unearths Mycenee, rediscovers Troy,—

Calmly he listens, that immortal boy.

A new Prometheus tips our wands with fire,

A mightier Orpheus strains the whispering wire,

Whose lightning thrills the lazy winds outrun

And hold the hours as Joshua stayed the sun,—

So swift, in truth, we hardly find a place

For those dim fictions known as time and space.

Still a new miracle each year supplies,—

See at his work the chemist of the skies,

Who questions Sirius in his tortured rays

And steals the secret of the solar blaze;

Hush! while the window-rattling bugles play

The nation's airs a hundred miles away!

That wicked phonograph! hark! how it swears!

Turn it again and make it say its prayers!

And was it true, then, what the story said

Of Oxford's friar and his brazen head?

While wondering Science stands, herself perplexed

At each day's miracle, and asks "What next?"

The immortal boy, the coming heir of all,

Springs from his desk to "urge the flying ball,"

Cleaves with his bending oar the glassy waves,

With sinewy arm the dashing current braves,

The same bright creature in these haunts of ours

That Eton shadowed with her "antique towers."

Boy! Where is he? the long-limbed youth inquires,

Whom his rough chin with manly pride inspires;

Ah, when the ruddy cheek no longer glows,

When the bright hair is white as winter snows,

When the dim eye has lost its lambent flame,

Sweet to his ear will be his school-boy name

Nor think the difference mighty as it seems

Between life's morning and its evening dreams;

Fourscore, like twenty, has its tasks and toys;

In earth's wide school-house all are girls and boys.

Brothers, forgive my wayward fancy. Who

Can guess beforehand what his pen will do?

Too light my strain for listeners such as these,

Whom graver thoughts and soberer speech shall please.

Is he not here whose breath of holy song

Has raised the downcast eyes of Faith so long?

Are they not here, the strangers in your gates,

For whom the wearied ear impatient waits,—

The large-brained scholars whom their toils release,—

The bannered heralds of the Prince of Peace?

Such was the gentle friend whose youth unblamed

In years long past our student-benches claimed;

Whose name, illumined on the sacred page,

Lives in the labors of his riper age;

Such he whose record time's destroying march

Leaves uneffaced on Zion's springing arch

Not to the scanty phrase of measured song,

Cramped in its fetters, names like these belong;

One ray they lend to gild my slender line,—

Their praise I leave to sweeter lips than mine.

Homes of our sires, where Learning's temple rose,

While vet they struggled with their banded foes,

As in the West thy century's sun descends,

One parting gleam its dying radiance lends.

Darker and deeper though the shadows fall

From the gray towers on Doubting Castle's wall,

Though Pope and Pagan re-array their hosts,

And her new armor youthful Science boasts,

Truth, for whose altar rose this holy shrine,

Shall fly for refuge to these bowers of thine;

No past shall chain her with its rusted vow,

No Jew's phylactery bind her Christian brow,

But Faith shall smile to find her sister free,

And nobler manhood draw its life from thee.

Long as the arching skies above thee spread,

As on thy groves the dews of heaven are shed,

With currents widening still from year to year,

And deepening channels, calm, untroubled, clear,

Flow the twin streamlets from thy sacred hill—

Pieria's fount and Siloam's shaded rill!

THE SILENT MELODY

"BRING me my broken harp," he said;

"We both are wrecks,—but as ye will,—

Though all its ringing tones have fled,

Their echoes linger round it still;

It had some golden strings, I know,

But that was long—how long!—ago.

"I cannot see its tarnished gold,

I cannot hear its vanished tone,

Scarce can my trembling fingers hold

The pillared frame so long their own;

We both are wrecks,—a while ago

It had some silver strings, I know,

"But on them Time too long has played

The solemn strain that knows no change,

And where of old my fingers strayed

The chords they find are new and strange,—

Yes! iron strings,—I know,—I know,—

We both are wrecks of long ago.

"We both are wrecks,—a shattered pair,—

Strange to ourselves in time's disguise.

What say ye to the lovesick air

That brought the tears from Marian's eyes?

Ay! trust me,—under breasts of snow

Hearts could be melted long ago!

"Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash

That from his dreams the soldier woke,

And bade him face the lightning flash

When battle's cloud in thunder broke? . . .

Wrecks,—nought but wrecks!—the time was when

We two were worth a thousand men!"

And so the broken harp they bring

With pitying smiles that none could blame;

Alas! there's not a single string

Of all that filled the tarnished frame!

But see! like children overjoyed,

His fingers rambling through the void!

"I clasp thee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyre . . .

Nay, guide my wandering fingers. . . There

They love to dally with the wire

As Isaac played with Esau's hair.

Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune

That Marian called the Breath of June!"

And so they softly gather round

Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems

His fingers move: but not a sound!

A silence like the song of dreams. . . .

"There! ye have heard the air," he cries,

"That brought the tears from Marian's eyes!"

Ah, smile not at his fond conceit,

Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain;

To him the unreal sounds are sweet,—

No discord mars the silent strain

Scored on life's latest, starlit page—

The voiceless melody of age.

Sweet are the lips, of all that sing,

When Nature's music breathes unsought,

But never yet could voice or string

So truly shape our tenderest thought

As when by life's decaying fire

Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre!

OUR HOME—OUR COUNTRY

FOR THE SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE SETTLEMENT OF CAMBRIDGE, MASS., DECEMBER 28, 1880

YOUR home was mine,—kind Nature's gift;

My love no years can chill;

In vain their flakes the storm-winds sift,

The snow-drop hides beneath the drift,

A living blossom still.

Mute are a hundred long-famed lyres,

Hushed all their golden strings;

One lay the coldest bosom fires,

One song, one only, never tires

While sweet-voiced memory sings.

No spot so lone but echo knows

That dear familiar strain;

In tropic isles, on arctic snows,

Through burning lips its music flows

And rings its fond refrain.

From Pisa's tower my straining sight

Roamed wandering leagues away,

When lo! a frigate's banner bright,

The starry blue, the red, the white,

In far Livorno's bay.

Hot leaps the life-blood from my heart,

Forth springs the sudden tear;

The ship that rocks by yonder mart

Is of my land, my life, a part,—

Home, home, sweet home, is here!

Fades from my view the sunlit scene,—

My vision spans the waves;

I see the elm-encircled green,

The tower,—the steeple,—and, between,

The field of ancient graves.

There runs the path my feet would tread

When first they learned to stray;

There stands the gambrel roof that spread

Its quaint old angles o'er my head

When first I saw the day.

The sounds that met my boyish ear

My inward sense salute,—

The woodnotes wild I loved to hear,—

The robin's challenge, sharp and clear,—

The breath of evening's flute.

The faces loved from cradle days,—

Unseen, alas, how long!

As fond remembrance round them plays,

Touched with its softening moonlight rays,

Through fancy's portal throng.

And see! as if the opening skies

Some angel form had spared

Us wingless mortals to surprise,

The little maid with light-blue eyes,

White necked and golden haired!

. . . . . . . . . .

So rose the picture full in view

I paint in feebler song;

Such power the seamless banner knew

Of red and white and starry blue

For exiles banished long.

Oh, boys, dear boys, who wait as men

To guard its heaven-bright folds,

Blest are the eyes that see again

That banner, seamless now, as then,—

The fairest earth beholds!

Sweet was the Tuscan air and soft

In that unfading hour,

And fancy leads my footsteps oft

Up the round galleries, high aloft

On Pisa's threatening tower.

And still in Memory's holiest shrine

I read with pride and joy,

"For me those stars of empire shine;

That empire's dearest home is mine;

I am a Cambridge boy!"

POEM

AT THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY, JUNE 8, 1881

THREE paths there be where Learning's favored sons,

Trained in the schools which hold her favored ones,

Follow their several stars with separate aim;

Each has its honors, each its special claim.

Bred in the fruitful cradle of the East,

First, as of oldest lineage, comes the Priest;

The Lawyer next, in wordy conflict strong,

Full armed to battle for the right,—or wrong;

Last, he whose calling finds its voice in deeds,

Frail Nature's helper in her sharpest needs.

Each has his gifts, his losses and his gains,

Each his own share of pleasures and of pains;

No life-long aim with steadfast eye pursued

Finds a smooth pathway all with roses strewed;

Trouble belongs to man of woman born,—

Tread where he may, his foot will find its thorn.

Of all the guests at life's perennial feast,

Who of her children sits above the Priest?

For him the broidered robe, the carven seat,

Pride at his beck, and beauty at his feet,

For him the incense fumes, the wine is poured,

Himself a God, adoring and adored!

His the first welcome when our hearts rejoice,

His in our dying ear the latest voice,

Font, altar, grave, his steps on all attend,

Our staff, our stay, our all but heavenly friend!

Where is the meddling hand that dares to probe

The secret grief beneath his sable robe?

How grave his port! how every gesture tells

Here truth abides, here peace forever dwells;

Vex not his lofty soul with comments vain;

Faith asks no questions; silence, ye profane!

Alas! too oft while all is calm without

The stormy spirit wars with endless doubt;

This is the mocking spectre, scarce concealed

Behind tradition's bruised and battered shield.

He sees the sleepless critic, age by age,

Scrawl his new readings on the hallowed page,

The wondrous deeds that priests and prophets saw

Dissolved in legend, crystallized in law,

And on the soil where saints and martyrs trod

Altars new builded to the Unknown God;

His shrines imperilled, his evangels torn,—

He dares not limp, but ah! how sharp his thorn!

Yet while God's herald questions as he reads

The outworn dogmas of his ancient creeds,

Drops from his ritual the exploded verse,

Blots from its page the Athanasian curse,

Though by the critic's dangerous art perplexed,

His holy life is Heaven's unquestioned text;

That shining guidance doubt can never mar,—

The pillar's flame, the light of Bethlehem's star!

Strong is the moral blister that will draw

Laid on the conscience of the Man of Law

Whom blindfold Justice lends her eyes to see

Truth in the scale that holds his promised fee.

What! Has not every lie its truthful side,

Its honest fraction, not to be denied?

Per contra,—ask the moralist,—in sooth

Has not a lie its share in every truth?

Then what forbids an honest man to try

To find the truth that lurks in every lie,

And just as fairly call on truth to yield

The lying fraction in its breast concealed?

So the worst rogue shall claim a ready friend

His modest virtues boldly to defend,

And he who shows the record of a saint

See himself blacker than the devil could paint.

What struggles to his captive soul belong

Who loves the right, yet combats for the wrong,

Who fights the battle he would fain refuse,

And wins, well knowing that he ought to lose,

Who speaks with glowing lips and look sincere

In spangled words that make the worse appear

The better reason; who, behind his mask,

Hides his true self and blushes at his task,—

What quips, what quillets cheat the inward scorn

That mocks such triumph? Has he not his thorn?

Yet stay thy judgment; were thy life the prize,

Thy death the forfeit, would thy cynic eyes

See fault in him who bravely dares defend

The cause forlorn, the wretch without a friend

Nay, though the rightful side is wisdom's choice,

Wrong has its rights and claims a champion's voice;

Let the strong arm be lifted for the weak,

For the dumb lips the fluent pleader speak;—

When with warm "rebel" blood our street was dyed

Who took, unawed, the hated hirelings' side?

No greener civic wreath can Adams claim,

No brighter page the youthful Quincy's name!

How blest is he who knows no meaner strife

Than Art's long battle with the foes of life!

No doubt assails him, doing still his best,

And trusting kindly Nature for the rest;

No mocking conscience tears the thin disguise

That wraps his breast, and tells him that he lies.

He comes: the languid sufferer lifts his head

And smiles a welcome from his weary bed;

He speaks: what music like the tones that tell,

"Past is the hour of danger,—all is well!"

How can he feel the petty stings of grief

Whose cheering presence always brings relief?

What ugly dreams can trouble his repose

Who yields himself to soothe another's woes?

Hour after hour the busy day has found

The good physician on his lonely round;

Mansion and hovel, low and lofty door,

He knows, his journeys every path explore,—

Where the cold blast has struck with deadly chill

The sturdy dweller on the storm-swept hill,

Where by the stagnant marsh the sickening gale

Has blanched the poisoned tenants of the vale,

Where crushed and maimed the bleeding victim lies,

Where madness raves, where melancholy sighs,

And where the solemn whisper tells too plain

That all his science, all his art, were vain.

How sweet his fireside when the day is done

And cares have vanished with the setting sun!

Evening at last its hour of respite brings

And on his couch his weary length he flings.

Soft be thy pillow, servant of mankind,

Lulled by an opiate Art could never find;

Sweet be thy slumber,—thou hast earned it well,—

Pleasant thy dreams! Clang! goes the midnight bell!

Darkness and storm! the home is far away

That waits his coming ere the break of day;

The snow-clad pines their wintry plumage toss,—

Doubtful the frozen stream his road must cross;

Deep lie the drifts, the slanted heaps have shut

The hardy woodman in his mountain hut,—

Why should thy softer frame the tempest brave?

Hast thou no life, no health, to lose or save?

Look! read the answer in his patient eyes,—

For him no other voice when suffering cries;

Deaf to the gale that all around him blows,

A feeble whisper calls him,—and he goes.

Or seek the crowded city,—summer's heat

Glares burning, blinding, in the narrow street,

Still, noisome, deadly, sleeps the envenomed air,

Unstirred the yellow flag that says "Beware!"

Tempt not thy fate,—one little moment's breath

Bears on its viewless wing the seeds of death;

Thou at whose door the gilded chariots stand,

Whose dear-bought skill unclasps the miser's hand,

Turn from thy fatal quest, nor cast away

That life so precious; let a meaner prey

Feed the destroyer's hunger; live to bless

Those happier homes that need thy care no less!

Smiling he listens; has he then a charm

Whose magic virtues peril can disarm?

No safeguard his; no amulet he wears,

Too well he knows that Nature never spares

Her truest servant, powerless to defend

From her own weapons her unshrinking friend.

He dares the fate the bravest well might shun,

Nor asks reward save only Heaven's "Well done!"

Such are the toils, the perils that he knows,

Days without rest and nights without repose,

Yet all unheeded for the love he bears

His art, his kind, whose every grief he shares.

Harder than these to know how small the part

Nature's proud empire yields to striving Art;

How, as the tide that rolls around the sphere

Laughs at the mounds that delving arms uprear,—

Spares some few roods of oozy earth, but still

Wastes and rebuilds the planet at its will,

Comes at its ordered season, night or noon,

Led by the silver magnet of the moon,—

So life's vast tide forever comes and goes,

Unchecked, resistless, as it ebbs and flows.

Hardest of all, when Art has done her best,

To find the cuckoo brooding in her nest;

The shrewd adventurer, fresh from parts unknown,

Kills off the patients Science thought her own;

Towns from a nostrum-vender get their name,

Fences and walls the cure-all drug proclaim,

Plasters and pads the willing world beguile,

Fair Lydia greets us with astringent smile,

Munchausen's fellow-countryman unlocks

His new Pandora's globule-holding box,

And as King George inquired, with puzzled grin,

"How—how the devil get the apple in?"

So we ask how,—with wonder-opening eyes,—

Such pygmy pills can hold such giant lies!

Yes, sharp the trials, stern the daily tasks

That suffering Nature from her servant asks;

His the kind office dainty menials scorn,

His path how hard,—at every step a thorn!

What does his saddening, restless slavery buy?

What save a right to live, a chance to die,—

To live companion of disease and pain,

To die by poisoned shafts untimely slain?

Answer from hoary eld, majestic shades,—

From Memphian courts, from Delphic colonnades,

Speak in the tones that Persia's despot heard

When nations treasured every golden word

The wandering echoes wafted o'er the seas,

From the far isle that held Hippocrates;

And thou, best gift that Pergamus could send

Imperial Rome, her noblest Caesar's friend,

Master of masters, whose unchallenged sway

Not bold Vesalius dared to disobey;

Ye who while prophets dreamed of dawning times

Taught your rude lessons in Salerno's rhymes,

And ye, the nearer sires, to whom we owe

The better share of all the best we know,

In every land an ever-growing train,

Since wakening Science broke her rusted chain,—

Speak from the past, and say what prize was sent

To crown the toiling years so freely spent!

List while they speak:

In life's uneven road

Our willing hands have eased our brothers' load;

One forehead smoothed, one pang of torture less,

One peaceful hour a sufferer's couch to bless,

The smile brought back to fever's parching lips,

The light restored to reason in eclipse,

Life's treasure rescued like a burning brand

Snatched from the dread destroyer's wasteful hand;

Such were our simple records day by day,

For gains like these we wore our lives away.

In toilsome paths our daily bread we sought,

But bread from heaven attending angels brought;

Pain was our teacher, speaking to the heart,

Mother of pity, nurse of pitying art;

Our lesson learned, we reached the peaceful shore

Where the pale sufferer asks our aid no more,—

These gracious words our welcome, our reward

Ye served your brothers; ye have served your Lord!

RHYMES OF A LIFE-TIME

FROM the first gleam of morning to the gray

Of peaceful evening, lo, a life unrolled!

In woven pictures all its changes told,

Its lights, its shadows, every flitting ray,

Till the long curtain, falling, dims the day,

Steals from the dial's disk the sunlight's gold,

And all the graven hours grow dark and cold

Where late the glowing blaze of noontide lay.

Ah! the warm blood runs wild in youthful veins,—

Let me no longer play with painted fire;

New songs for new-born days! I would not tire

The listening ears that wait for fresher strains

In phrase new-moulded, new-forged rhythmic chains,

With plaintive measures from a worn-out lyre.

August 2, 1881.

===

BEFORE THE CURFEW

AT MY FIRESIDE

ALONE, beneath the darkened sky,

With saddened heart and unstrung lyre,

I heap the spoils of years gone by,

And leave them with a long-drawn sigh,

Like drift-wood brands that glimmering lie,

Before the ashes hide the fire.

Let not these slow declining days

The rosy light of dawn outlast;

Still round my lonely hearth it plays,

And gilds the east with borrowed rays,

While memory's mirrored sunset blaze

Flames on the windows of the past.

March 1, 1888.

AT THE SATURDAY CLUB

THIS is our place of meeting; opposite

That towered and pillared building: look at it;

King's Chapel in the Second George's day,

Rebellion stole its regal name away,—

Stone Chapel sounded better; but at last

The poisoned name of our provincial past

Had lost its ancient venom; then once more

Stone Chapel was King's Chapel as before.

(So let rechristened North Street, when it can,

Bring back the days of Marlborough and Queen Anne!)

Next the old church your wandering eye will meet—

A granite pile that stares upon the street—

Our civic temple; slanderous tongues have said

Its shape was modelled from St. Botolph's head,

Lofty, but narrow; jealous passers-by

Say Boston always held her head too high.

Turn half-way round, and let your look survey

The white facade that gleams across the way,—

The many-windowed building, tall and wide,

The palace-inn that shows its northern side

In grateful shadow when the sunbeams beat

The granite wall in summer's scorching heat.

This is the place; whether its name you spell

Tavern, or caravansera, or hotel.

Would I could steal its echoes! you should find

Such store of vanished pleasures brought to mind

Such feasts! the laughs of many a jocund hour

That shook the mortar from King George's tower;

Such guests! What famous names its record boasts,

Whose owners wander in the mob of ghosts!

Such stories! Every beam and plank is filled

With juicy wit the joyous talkers spilled,

Ready to ooze, as once the mountain pine

The floors are laid with oozed its turpentine!

A month had flitted since The Club had met;

The day came round; I found the table set,

The waiters lounging round the marble stairs,

Empty as yet the double row of chairs.

I was a full half hour before the rest,

Alone, the banquet-chamber's single guest.

So from the table's side a chair I took,

And having neither company nor book

To keep me waking, by degrees there crept

A torpor over me,—in short, I slept.

Loosed from its chain, along the wreck-strown track

Of the dead years my soul goes travelling back;

My ghosts take on their robes of flesh; it seems

Dreaming is life; nay, life less life than dreams,

So real are the shapes that meet my eyes.

They bring no sense of wonder, no surprise,

No hint of other than an earth-born source;

All seems plain daylight, everything of course.

How dim the colors are, how poor and faint

This palette of weak words with which I paint!

Here sit my friends; if I could fix them so

As to my eyes they seem, my page would glow

Like a queen's missal, warm as if the brush

Of Titian or Velasquez brought the flush

Of life into their features. Ay de mi!

If syllables were pigments, you should see

Such breathing portraitures as never man

Found in the Pitti or the Vatican.

Here sits our POET, Laureate, if you will.

Long has he worn the wreath, and wears it still.

Dead? Nay, not so; and yet they say his bust

Looks down on marbles covering royal dust,

Kings by the Grace of God, or Nature's grace;

Dead! No! Alive! I see him in his place,

Full-featured, with the bloom that heaven denies

Her children, pinched by cold New England skies,

Too often, while the nursery's happier few

Win from a summer cloud its roseate hue.

Kind, soft-voiced, gentle, in his eye there shines

The ray serene that filled Evangeline's.

Modest he seems, not shy; content to wait

Amid the noisy clamor of debate

The looked-for moment when a peaceful word

Smooths the rough ripples louder tongues have stirred.

In every tone I mark his tender grace

And all his poems hinted in his face;

What tranquil joy his friendly presence gives!

How could. I think him dead? He lives! He lives!

There, at the table's further end I see

In his old place our Poet's vis-a-vis,

The great PROFESSOR, strong, broad-shouldered, square,

In life's rich noontide, joyous, debonair.

His social hour no leaden care alloys,

His laugh rings loud and mirthful as a boy's,—

That lusty laugh the Puritan forgot,—

What ear has heard it and remembers not?

How often, halting at some wide crevasse

Amid the windings of his Alpine pass,

High up the cliffs, the climbing mountaineer,

Listening the far-off avalanche to hear,

Silent, and leaning on his steel-shod staff,

Has heard that cheery voice, that ringing laugh,

From the rude cabin whose nomadic walls

Creep with the moving glacier as it crawls

How does vast Nature lead her living train

In ordered sequence through that spacious brain,

As in the primal hour when Adam named

The new-born tribes that young creation claimed!—

How will her realm be darkened, losing thee,

Her darling, whom we call our AGASSIZ!

But who is he whose massive frame belies

The maiden shyness of his downcast eyes?

Who broods in silence till, by questions pressed,

Some answer struggles from his laboring breast?

An artist Nature meant to dwell apart,

Locked in his studio with a human heart,

Tracking its eaverned passions to their lair,

And all its throbbing mysteries laying bare.

Count it no marvel that he broods alone

Over the heart he studies,—'t is his own;

So in his page, whatever shape it wear,

The Essex wizard's shadowed self is there,—

The great ROMANCER, hid beneath his veil

Like the stern preacher of his sombre tale;

Virile in strength, yet bashful as a girl,

Prouder than Hester, sensitive as Pearl.

From his mild throng of worshippers released,

Our Concord Delphi sends its chosen priest,

Prophet or poet, mystic, sage, or seer,

By every title always welcome here.

Why that ethereal spirit's frame describe?

You know the race-marks of the Brahmin tribe,

The spare, slight form, the sloping shoulders' droop,

The calm, scholastic mien, the clerkly stoop,

The lines of thought the sharpened features wear,

Carved by the edge of keen New England air.

List! for he speaks! As when a king would choose

The jewels for his bride, he might refuse

This diamond for its flaw,—find that less bright

Than those, its fellows, and a pearl less white

Than fits her snowy neck, and yet at last,

The fairest gems are chosen, and made fast

In golden fetters; so, with light delays

He seeks the fittest word to fill his phrase;

Nor vain nor idle his fastidious quest,

His chosen word is sure to prove the best.

Where in the realm of thought, whose air is song,

Does he, the Buddha of the West, belong?

He seems a winged Franklin, sweetly wise,

Born to unlock the secrets of the skies;

And which the nobler calling,—if 't is fair

Terrestrial with celestial to compare,—

To guide the storm-cloud's elemental flame,

Or walk the chambers whence the lightning came,

Amidst the sources of its subtile fire,

And steal their effluence for his lips and lyre?

If lost at times in vague aerial flights,

None treads with firmer footstep when he lights;

A soaring nature, ballasted with sense,

Wisdom without her wrinkles or pretence,

In every Bible he has faith to read,

And every altar helps to shape his creed.

Ask you what name this prisoned spirit bears

While with ourselves this fleeting breath it shares?

Till angels greet him with a sweeter one

In heaven, on earth we call him EMERSON.

I start; I wake; the vision is withdrawn;

Its figures fading like the stars at dawn;

Crossed from the roll of life their cherished names,

And memory's pictures fading in their frames;

Yet life is lovelier for these transient gleams

Of buried friendships; blest is he who dreams!

OUR DEAD SINGER

H. W. L.

PRIDE of the sister realm so long our own,

We claim with her that spotless fame of thine,

White as her snow and fragrant as her pine!

Ours was thy birthplace, but in every zone

Some wreath of song thy liberal hand has thrown

Breathes perfume from its blossoms, that entwine

Where'er the dewdrops fall, the sunbeams shine,

On life's long path with tangled cares o'ergrown.

Can Art thy truthful counterfeit command,—

The silver-haloed features, tranquil, mild,—

Soften the lips of bronze as when they smiled,

Give warmth and pressure to the marble hand?

Seek the lost rainbow in the sky it spanned

Farewell, sweet Singer! Heaven reclaims its child.

Carved from the block or cast in clinging mould,

Will grateful Memory fondly try her best

The mortal vesture from decay to wrest;

His look shall greet us, calm, but ah, how cold!

No breath can stir the brazen drapery's fold,

No throb can heave the statue's stony breast;

"He is not here, but risen," will stand confest

In all we miss, in all our eyes behold.

How Nature loved him! On his placid brow,

Thought's ample dome, she set the sacred sign

That marks the priesthood of her holiest shrine,

Nor asked a leaflet from the laurel's bough

That envious Time might clutch or disallow,

To prove her chosen minstrel's song divine.

On many a saddened hearth the evening fire

Burns paler as the children's hour draws near,—

That joyous hour his song made doubly dear,—

And tender memories touch the faltering choir.

He sings no more on earth; our vain desire

Aches for the voice we loved so long to hear

In Dorian flute-notes breathing soft and clear,—

The sweet contralto that could never tire.

Deafened with listening to a harsher strain,

The Maenad's scream, the stark barbarian's cry,

Still for those soothing, loving tones we sigh;

Oh, for our vanished Orpheus once again!

The shadowy silence hears us call in vain!

His lips are hushed; his song shall never die.

TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, JUNE 14, 1882

I. AT THE SUMMIT

SISTER, we bid you welcome,—we who stand

On the high table-land;

We who have climbed life's slippery Alpine slope,

And rest, still leaning on the staff of hope,

Looking along the silent Mer de Glace,

Leading our footsteps where the dark crevasse

Yawns in the frozen sea we all must pass,—

Sister, we clasp your hand!

Rest with us in the hour that Heaven has lent

Before the swift descent.

Look! the warm sunbeams kiss the glittering ice;

See! next the snow-drift blooms the edelweiss;

The mated eagles fan the frosty air;

Life, beauty, love, around us everywhere,

And, in their time, the darkening hours that bear

Sweet memories, peace, content.

Thrice welcome! shining names our missals show

Amid their rubrics' glow,

But search the blazoned record's starry line,

What halo's radiance fills the page like thine?

Thou who by some celestial clue couldst find

The way to all the hearts of all mankind,

On thee, already canonized, enshrined,

What more can Heaven bestow!

II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE

IF every tongue that speaks her praise

For whom I shape my tinkling phrase

Were summoned to the table,

The vocal chorus that would meet

Of mingling accents harsh or sweet,

From every land and tribe, would beat

The polyglots at Babel.

Briton and Frenchman, Swede and Dane,

Turk, Spaniard, Tartar of Ukraine,

Hidalgo, Cossack, Cadi,

High Dutchman and Low Dutchman, too,

The Russian serf, the Polish Jew,

Arab, Armenian, and Mantchoo,

Would shout, "We know the lady!"

Know her! Who knows not Uncle Tom

And her he learned his gospel from

Has never heard of Moses;

Full well the brave black hand we know

That gave to freedom's grasp the hoe

That killed the weed that used to grow

Among the Southern roses.

When Archimedes, long ago,

Spoke out so grandly, "dos pou sto—

Give me a place to stand on,

I'll move your planet for you, now,"—

He little dreamed or fancied how

The sto at last should find its pou

For woman's faith to land on.

Her lever was the wand of art,

Her fulcrum was the human heart,

Whence all unfailing aid is;

She moved the earth! Its thunders pealed,

Its mountains shook, its temples reeled,

The blood-red fountains were unsealed,

And Moloch sunk to Hades.

All through the conflict, up and down

Marched Uncle Tom and Old John Brown,

One ghost, one form ideal;

And which was false and which was true,

And which was mightier of the two,

The wisest sibyl never knew,

For both alike were real.

Sister, the holy maid does well

Who counts her beads in convent cell,

Where pale devotion lingers;

But she who serves the sufferer's needs,

Whose prayers are spelt in loving deeds,

May trust the Lord will count her beads

As well as human fingers.

When Truth herself was Slavery's slave,

Thy hand the prisoned suppliant gave

The rainbow wings of fiction.

And Truth who soared descends to-day

Bearing an angel's wreath away,

Its lilies at thy feet to lay

With Heaven's own benediction.

A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD

ON HIS RETURN FROM SOUTH AMERICA

AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS DEVOTED TO CATALOGUING THE STARS OF THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE

Read at the Dinner given at the Hotel Vendome, May 6,1885.

ONCE more Orion and the sister Seven

Look on thee from the skies that hailed thy birth,—

How shall we welcome thee, whose home was heaven,

From thy celestial wanderings back to earth?

Science has kept her midnight taper burning

To greet thy coming with its vestal flame;

Friendship has murmured, "When art thou returning?"

"Not yet! Not yet!" the answering message came.

Thine was unstinted zeal, unchilled devotion,

While the blue realm had kingdoms to explore,—

Patience, like his who ploughed the unfurrowed ocean,

Till o'er its margin loomed San Salvador.

Through the long nights I see thee ever waking,

Thy footstool earth, thy roof the hemisphere,

While with thy griefs our weaker hearts are aching,

Firm as thine equatorial's rock-based pier.

The souls that voyaged the azure depths before thee

Watch with thy tireless vigils, all unseen,—

Tycho and Kepler bend benignant o'er thee,

And with his toy-like tube the Florentine,—

He at whose word the orb that bore him shivered

To find her central sovereignty disowned,

While the wan lips of priest and pontiff quivered,

Their jargon stilled, their Baal disenthroned.

Flamsteed and Newton look with brows unclouded,

Their strife forgotten with its faded scars,—

(Titans, who found the world of space too crowded

To walk in peace among its myriad stars.)

All cluster round thee,—seers of earliest ages,

Persians, Ionians, Mizraim's learned kings,

From the dim days of Shinar's hoary sages

To his who weighed the planet's fluid rings.

And we, for whom the northern heavens are lighted,

For whom the storm has passed, the sun has smiled,

Our clouds all scattered, all our stars united,

We claim thee, clasp thee, like a long-lost child.

Fresh from the spangled vault's o'er-arching splendor,

Thy lonely pillar, thy revolving dome,

In heartfelt accents, proud, rejoicing, tender,

We bid thee welcome to thine earthly home!

TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE

AT A DINNER GIVEN HIM ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1885

With a bronze statuette of John of Bologna's Mercury, presented by a few friends.

FIT emblem for the altar's side,

And him who serves its daily need,

The stay, the solace, and the guide

Of mortal men, whate'er his creed!

Flamen or Auspex, Priest or Bonze,

He feeds the upward-climbing fire,

Still teaching, like the deathless bronze,

Man's noblest lesson,—to aspire.

Hermes lies prone by fallen Jove,

Crushed are the wheels of Krishna's car,

And o'er Dodona's silent grove

Streams the white, ray from Bethlehem's star.

Yet snatched from Time's relentless clutch,

A godlike shape, that human hands

Have fired with Art's electric touch,

The herald of Olympus stands.

Ask not what ore the furnace knew;

Love mingled with the flowing mass,

And lends its own unchanging hue,

Like gold in Corinth's molten brass.

Take then our gift; this airy form

Whose bronze our benedictions gild,

The hearts of all its givers warm

With love by freezing years unchilled.

With eye undimmed, with strength unworn,

Still toiling in your Master's field,

Before you wave the growths unshorn,

Their ripened harvest yet to yield.

True servant of the Heavenly Sire,

To you our tried affection clings,

Bids you still labor, still aspire,

But clasps your feet and steals their wings.

TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

THIS is your month, the month of "perfect days,"

Birds in full song and blossoms all ablaze.

Nature herself your earliest welcome breathes,

Spreads every leaflet, every bower inwreathes;

Carpets her paths for your returning feet,

Puts forth her best your coming steps to greet;

And Heaven must surely find the earth in tune

When Home, sweet Home, exhales the breath of June.

These blessed days are waning all too fast,

And June's bright visions mingling with the past;

Lilacs have bloomed and faded, and the rose

Has dropped its petals, but the clover blows,

And fills its slender tubes with honeyed sweets;

The fields are pearled with milk-white margarites;

The dandelion, which you sang of old,

Has lost its pride of place, its crown of gold,

But still displays its feathery-mantled globe,

Which children's breath, or wandering winds unrobe.

These were your humble friends; your opened eyes

Nature had trained her common gifts to prize;

Not Cam nor Isis taught you to despise

Charles, with his muddy margin and the harsh,

Plebeian grasses of the reeking marsh.

New England's home-bred scholar, well you knew

Her soil, her speech, her people, through and through,

And loved them ever with the love that holds

All sweet, fond memories in its fragrant folds.

Though far and wide your winged words have flown,

Your daily presence kept you all our own,

Till, with a sorrowing sigh, a thrill of pride,

We heard your summons, and you left our side

For larger duties and for tasks untried.

How pleased the Spaniards for a while to claim

This frank Hidalgo with the liquid name,

Who stored their classics on his crowded shelves

And loved their Calderon as they did themselves!

Before his eyes what changing pageants pass!

The bridal feast how near the funeral mass!

The death-stroke falls,—the Misereres wail;

The joy-bells ring,—the tear-stained cheeks unveil,

While, as the playwright shifts his pictured scene,

The royal mourner crowns his second queen.

From Spain to Britain is a goodly stride,—

Madrid and London long-stretched leagues divide.

What if I send him, "Uncle S., says he,"

To my good cousin whom he calls "J. B."?

A nation's servants go where they are sent,—

He heard his Uncle's orders, and he went.

By what enchantments, what alluring arts,

Our truthful James led captive British hearts,—

Whether his shrewdness made their statesmen halt,

Or if his learning found their Dons at fault,

Or if his virtue was a strange surprise,

Or if his wit flung star-dust in their eyes,—

Like honest Yankees we can simply guess;

But that he did it all must needs confess.

England herself without a blush may claim

Her only conqueror since the Norman came.

Eight years an exile! What a weary while

Since first our herald sought the mother isle!

His snow-white flag no churlish wrong has soiled,—-

He left unchallenged, he returns unspoiled.

Here let us keep him, here he saw the light,—

His genius, wisdom, wit, are ours by right;

And if we lose him our lament will be

We have "five hundred"—not "as good as he."

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY

1887

FRIEND, whom thy fourscore winters leave more dear

Than when life's roseate summer on thy cheek

Burned in the flush of manhood's manliest year,

Lonely, how lonely! is the snowy peak

Thy feet have reached, and mine have climbed so near!

Close on thy footsteps 'mid the landscape drear

I stretch my hand thine answering grasp to seek,

Warm with the love no rippling rhymes can speak!

Look backward! From thy lofty height survey

Thy years of toil, of peaceful victories won,

Of dreams made real, largest hopes outrun!

Look forward! Brighter than earth's morning ray

Streams the pure light of Heaven's unsetting sun,

The unclouded dawn of life's immortal day!

PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE BLIND

DEAR friends, left darkling in the long eclipse

That veils the noonday,—you whose finger-tips

A meaning in these ridgy leaves can find

Where ours go stumbling, senseless, helpless, blind.

This wreath of verse how dare I offer you

To whom the garden's choicest gifts are due?

The hues of all its glowing beds are ours,

Shall you not claim its sweetest-smelling flowers?

Nay, those I have I bring you,—at their birth

Life's cheerful sunshine warmed the grateful earth;

If my rash boyhood dropped some idle seeds,

And here and there you light on saucy weeds

Among the fairer growths, remember still

Song comes of grace, and not of human will:

We get a jarring note when most we try,

Then strike the chord we know not how or why;

Our stately verse with too aspiring art

Oft overshoots and fails to reach the heart,

While the rude rhyme one human throb endears

Turns grief to smiles, and softens mirth to tears.

Kindest of critics, ye whose fingers read,

From Nature's lesson learn the poet's creed;

The queenly tulip flaunts in robes of flame,

The wayside seedling scarce a tint may claim,

Yet may the lowliest leaflets that unfold

A dewdrop fresh from heaven's own chalice hold.

BOSTON TO FLORENCE

Sent to "The Philological Circle" of Florence for its meeting in commemoration of Dante, January 27, 1881, the anniversary of his first condemnation.

PROUD of her clustering spires, her new-built towers,

Our Venice, stolen from the slumbering sea,

A sister's kindliest greeting wafts to thee,

Rose of Val d' Arno, queen of all its flowers!

Thine exile's shrine thy sorrowing love embowers,

Yet none with truer homage bends the knee,

Or stronger pledge of fealty brings, than we,

Whose poets make thy dead Immortal ours.

Lonely the height, but ah, to heaven how near!

Dante, whence flowed that solemn verse of thine

Like the stern river from its Apennine

Whose name the far-off Scythian thrilled with fear:

Now to all lands thy deep-toned voice is dear,

And every language knows the Song Divine!

AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL

MARCH 8, 1882

THE waves unbuild the wasting shore;

Where mountains towered the billows sweep,

Yet still their borrowed spoils restore,

And build new empires from the deep.

So while the floods of thought lay waste

The proud domain of priestly creeds,

Its heaven-appointed tides will haste

To plant new homes for human needs.

Be ours to mark with hearts unchilled

The change an outworn church deplores;

The legend sinks, but Faith shall build

A fairer throne on new-found shores.

POEM

FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF HARVARD COLLEGE

TWICE had the mellowing sun of autumn crowned

The hundredth circle of his yearly round,

When, as we meet to-day, our fathers met:

That joyous gathering who can e'er forget,

When Harvard's nurslings, scattered far and wide,

Through mart and village, lake's and ocean's side,

Came, with one impulse, one fraternal throng,

And crowned the hours with banquet, speech, and song?

Once more revived in fancy's magic glass,

I see in state the long procession pass

Tall, courtly, leader as by right divine,

Winthrop, our Winthrop, rules the marshalled line,

Still seen in front, as on that far-off day

His ribboned baton showed the column's way.

Not all are gone who marched in manly pride

And waved their truncheons at their leader's side;

Gray, Lowell, Dixwell, who his empire shared,

These to be with us envious Time has spared.

Few are the faces, so familiar then,

Our eyes still meet amid the haunts of men;

Scarce one of all the living gathered there,

Whose unthinned locks betrayed a silver hair,

Greets us to-day, and yet we seem the same

As our own sires and grandsires, save in name.

There are the patriarchs, looking vaguely round

For classmates' faces, hardly known if found;

See the cold brow that rules the busy mart;

Close at its side the pallid son of art,

Whose purchased skill with borrowed meaning clothes,

And stolen hues, the smirking face he loathes.

Here is the patient scholar; in his looks

You read the titles of his learned books;

What classic lore those spidery crow's-feet speak!

What problems figure on that wrinkled cheek!

For never thought but left its stiffened trace,

Its fossil footprint, on the plastic face,

As the swift record of a raindrop stands,

Fixed on the tablet of the hardening sands.

On every face as on the written page

Each year renews the autograph of age;

One trait alone may wasting years defy,—

The fire still lingering in the poet's eye,

While Hope, the siren, sings her sweetest strain,—

Non omnis moriar is its proud refrain.

Sadly we gaze upon the vacant chair;

He who should claim its honors is not there,—

Otis, whose lips the listening crowd enthrall

That press and pack the floor of Boston's hall.

But Kirkland smiles, released from toil and care

Since the silk mantle younger shoulders wear,—

Quincy's, whose spirit breathes the selfsame fire

That filled the bosom of his youthful sire,

Who for the altar bore the kindled torch

To freedom's temple, dying in its porch.

Three grave professions in their sons appear,

Whose words well studied all well pleased will hear

Palfrey, ordained in varied walks to shine,

Statesman, historian, critic, and divine;

Solid and square behold majestic Shaw,

A mass of wisdom and a mine of law;

Warren, whose arm the doughtiest warriors fear,

Asks of the startled crowd to lend its ear,—

Proud of his calling, him the world loves best,

Not as the coming, but the parting guest.

Look on that form,—with eye dilating scan

The stately mould of nature's kingliest man!

Tower-like he stands in life's unfaded prime;

Ask you his name? None asks a second time

He from the land his outward semblance takes,

Where storm-swept mountains watch o'er slumbering lakes.

See in the impress which the body wears

How its imperial might the soul declares

The forehead's large expansion, lofty, wide,

That locks unsilvered vainly strive to hide;

The lines of thought that plough the sober cheek;

Lips that betray their wisdom ere they speak

In tones like answers from Dodona's grove;

An eye like Juno's when she frowns on Jove.

I look and wonder; will he be content—

This man, this monarch, for the purple meant—

The meaner duties of his tribe to share,

Clad in the garb that common mortals wear?

Ah, wild Ambition, spread thy restless wings,

Beneath whose plumes the hidden cestrum stings;

Thou whose bold flight would leave earth's vulgar crowds,

And like the eagle soar above the clouds,

Must feel the pang that fallen angels know

When the red lightning strikes thee from below!

Less bronze, more silver, mingles in the mould

Of him whom next my roving eyes behold;

His, more the scholar's than the statesman's face,

Proclaims him born of academic race.

Weary his look, as if an aching brain

Left on his brow the frozen prints of pain;

His voice far-reaching, grave, sonorous, owns

A shade of sadness in its plaintive tones,

Yet when its breath some loftier thought inspires

Glows with a heat that every bosom fires.

Such Everett seems; no chance-sown wild flower knows

The full-blown charms of culture's double rose,—

Alas, how soon, by death's unsparing frost,

Its bloom is faded and its fragrance lost!

Two voices, only two, to earth belong,

Of all whose accents met the listening throng:

Winthrop, alike for speech and guidance framed,

On that proud day a twofold duty claimed;

One other yet,—remembered or forgot,—

Forgive my silence if I name him not.

Can I believe it? I, whose youthful voice

Claimed a brief gamut,—notes not over choice,

Stood undismayed before the solemn throng,

And propria voce sung that saucy song

Which even in memory turns my soul aghast,—

Felix audacia was the verdict cast.

What were the glory of these festal days

Shorn of their grand illumination's blaze?

Night comes at last with all her starry train

To find a light in every glittering pane.

From "Harvard's" windows see the sudden flash,—

Old "Massachusetts" glares through every sash;

From wall to wall the kindling splendors run

Till all is glorious as the noonday sun.

How to the scholar's mind each object brings

What some historian tells, some poet sings!

The good gray teacher whom we all revered—

Loved, honored, laughed at, and by freshmen feared,

As from old "Harvard," where its light began,

From hall to hall the clustering splendors ran—

Took down his well-worn Eschylus and read,

Lit by the rays a thousand tapers shed,

How the swift herald crossed the leagues between

Mycenae's monarch and his faithless queen;

And thus he read,—my verse but ill displays

The Attic picture, clad in modern phrase.

On Ida's summit flames the kindling pile,

And Lemnos answers from his rocky isle;

From Athos next it climbs the reddening skies,

Thence where the watch-towers of Macistus rise.

The sentries of Mesapius in their turn

Bid the dry heath in high piled masses burn,

Cithoeron's crag the crimson billows stain,

Far AEgiplanctus joins the fiery train.

Thus the swift courier through the pathless night

Has gained at length the Arachnoean height,

Whence the glad tidings, borne on wings offlame,

"Ilium has fallen!" reach the royal dame.

So ends the day; before the midnight stroke

The lights expiring cloud the air with smoke;

While these the toil of younger hands employ,

The slumbering Grecian dreams of smouldering Troy.

As to that hour with backward steps I turn,

Midway I pause; behold a funeral urn!

Ah, sad memorial! known but all too well

The tale which thus its golden letters tell:

This dust, once breathing, changed its joyous life

For toil and hunger, wounds and mortal strife;

Love, friendship, learning's all prevailing charms,

For the cold bivouac and the clash of arms.

The cause of freedom won, a race enslaved

Called back to manhood, and a nation saved,

These sons of Harvard, falling ere their prime,

Leave their proud memory to the coming time.

While in their still retreats our scholars turn

The mildewed pages of the past, to learn

With endless labor of the sleepless brain

What once has been and ne'er shall be again,

We reap the harvest of their ceaseless toil

And find a fragrance in their midnight oil.

But let a purblind mortal dare the task

The embryo future of itself to ask,

The world reminds him, with a scornful laugh,

That times have changed since Prospero broke his staff.

Could all the wisdom of the schools foretell

The dismal hour when Lisbon shook and fell,

Or name the shuddering night that toppled down

Our sister's pride, beneath whose mural crown

Scarce had the scowl forgot its angry lines,

When earth's blind prisoners fired their fatal mines?

New realms, new worlds, exulting Science claims,

Still the dim future unexplored remains;

Her trembling scales the far-off planet weigh,

Her torturing prisms its elements betray,—

We know what ores the fires of Sirius melt,

What vaporous metals gild Orion's belt;

Angels, archangels, may have yet to learn

Those hidden truths our heaven-taught eyes discern;

Yet vain is Knowledge, with her mystic wand,

To pierce the cloudy screen and read beyond;

Once to the silent stars the fates were known,

To us they tell no secrets but their own.

At Israel's altar still we humbly bow,

But where, oh where, are Israel's prophets now?

Where is the sibyl with her hoarded leaves?

Where is the charm the weird enchantress weaves?

No croaking raven turns the auspex pale,

No reeking altars tell the morrow's tale;

The measured footsteps of the Fates are dumb,

Unseen, unheard, unheralded, they come,

Prophet and priest and all their following fail.

Who then is left to rend the future's veil?

Who but the poet, he whose nicer sense

No film can baffle with its slight defence,

Whose finer vision marks the waves that stray,

Felt, but unseen, beyond the violet ray?—

Who, while the storm-wind waits its darkening shroud,

Foretells the tempest ere he sees the cloud,—

Stays not for time his secrets to reveal,

But reads his message ere he breaks the seal.

So Mantua's bard foretold the coming day

Ere Bethlehem's infant in the manger lay;

The promise trusted to a mortal tongue

Found listening ears before the angels sung.

So while his load the creeping pack-horse galled,

While inch by inch the dull canal-boat crawled,

Darwin beheld a Titan from "afar

Drag the slow barge or drive the rapid car,"

That panting giant fed by air and flame,

The mightiest forges task their strength to tame.

Happy the poet! him no tyrant fact

Holds in its clutches to be chained and racked;

Him shall no mouldy document convict,

No stern statistics gravely contradict;

No rival sceptre threats his airy throne;

He rules o'er shadows, but he reigns alone.

Shall I the poet's broad dominion claim

Because you bid me wear his sacred name

For these few moments? Shall I boldly clash

My flint and steel, and by the sudden flash

Read the fair vision which my soul descries

Through the wide pupils of its wondering eyes?

List then awhile; the fifty years have sped;

The third full century's opened scroll is spread,

Blank to all eyes save his who dimly sees

The shadowy future told in words like these.

How strange the prospect to my sight appears,

Changed by the busy hands of fifty years!

Full well I know our ocean-salted Charles,

Filling and emptying through the sands and marls

That wall his restless stream on either bank,

Not all unlovely when the sedges rank

Lend their coarse veil the sable ooze to hide

That bares its blackness with the ebbing tide.

In other shapes to my illumined eyes

Those ragged margins of our stream arise

Through walls of stone the sparkling waters flow,

In clearer depths the golden sunsets glow,

On purer waves the lamps of midnight gleam,

That silver o'er the unpolluted stream.

Along his shores what stately temples rise,

What spires, what turrets, print the shadowed skies!

Our smiling Mother sees her broad domain

Spread its tall roofs along the western plain;

Those blazoned windows' blushing glories tell

Of grateful hearts that loved her long and well;

Yon gilded dome that glitters in the sun

Was Dives' gift,—alas, his only one!

These buttressed walls enshrine a banker's name,

That hallowed chapel hides a miser's shame;

Their wealth they left,—their memory cannot fade

Though age shall crumble every stone they laid.

Great lord of millions,—let me call thee great,

Since countless servants at thy bidding wait,—

Richesse oblige: no mortal must be blind

To all but self, or look at human kind

Laboring and suffering,—all its want and woe,—

Through sheets of crystal, as a pleasing show

That makes life happier for the chosen few

Duty for whom is something not to do.

When thy last page of life at length is filled,

What shall thine heirs to keep thy memory build?

Will piles of stone in Auburn's mournful shade

Save from neglect the spot where thou art laid?

Nay, deem not thus; the sauntering stranger's eye

Will pass unmoved thy columned tombstone by,

No memory wakened, not a teardrop shed,

Thy name uncared for and thy date unread.

But if thy record thou indeed dost prize,

Bid from the soil some stately temple rise,—

Some hall of learning, some memorial shrine,

With names long honored to associate thine:

So shall thy fame outlive thy shattered bust

When all around thee slumber in the dust.

Thus England's Henry lives in Eton's towers,

Saved from the spoil oblivion's gulf devours;

Our later records with as fair a fame

Have wreathed each uncrowned benefactor's name;

The walls they reared the memories still retain

That churchyard marbles try to keep in vain.

In vain the delving antiquary tries

To find the tomb where generous Harvard lies

Here, here, his lasting monument is found,

Where every spot is consecrated ground!

O'er Stoughton's dust the crumbling stone decays,

Fast fade its lines of lapidary praise;

There the wild bramble weaves its ragged nets,

There the dry lichen spreads its gray rosettes;

Still in yon walls his memory lives unspent,

Nor asks a braver, nobler monument.

Thus Hollis lives, and Holden, honored, praised,

And good Sir Matthew, in the halls they raised;

Thus live the worthies of these later times,

Who shine in deeds, less brilliant, grouped in rhymes.

Say, shall the Muse with faltering steps retreat,

Or dare these names in rhythmic form repeat?

Why not as boldly as from Homer's lips

The long array, of Argive battle-ships?

When o'er our graves a thousand years have past

(If to such date our threatened globe shall last)

These classic precincts, myriad feet have pressed,

Will show on high, in beauteous garlands dressed,

Those honored names that grace our later day,—

Weld, Matthews, Sever, Thayer, Austin, Gray,

Sears, Phillips, Lawrence, Hemenway,—to the list

Add Sanders, Sibley,—all the Muse has missed.

Once more I turn to read the pictured page

Bright with the promise of the coming age.

Ye unborn sons of children yet unborn,

Whose youthful eyes shall greet that far-off morn,

Blest are those eyes that all undimmed behold

The sights so longed for by the wise of old.

From high-arched alcoves, through resounding halls,

Clad in full robes majestic Science calls,

Tireless, unsleeping, still at Nature's feet,

Whate'er she utters fearless to repeat,

Her lips at last from every cramp released

That Israel's prophet caught from Egypt's priest.

I see the statesman, firm, sagacious, bold,

For life's long conflict cast in amplest mould;

Not his to clamor with the senseless throng

That shouts unshamed, "Our party, right or wrong,"

But in the patriot's never-ending fight

To side with Truth, who changes wrong to right.

I see the scholar; in that wondrous time

Men, women, children, all can write in rhyme.

These four brief lines addressed to youth inclined

To idle rhyming in his notes I find:

Who writes in verse that should have writ in prose

Is like a traveller walking on his toes;

Happy the rhymester who in time has found

The heels he lifts were made to touch the ground.

I see gray teachers,—on their work intent,

Their lavished lives, in endless labor spent,

Had closed at last in age and penury wrecked,

Martyrs, not burned, but frozen in neglect,

Save for the generous hands that stretched in aid

Of worn-out servants left to die half paid.

Ah, many a year will pass, I thought, ere we

Such kindly forethought shall rejoice to see,—

Monarchs are mindful of the sacred debt

That cold republics hasten to forget.

I see the priest,—if such a name he bears

Who without pride his sacred vestment wears;

And while the symbols of his tribe I seek

Thus my first impulse bids me think and speak:

Let not the mitre England's prelate wears

Next to the crown whose regal pomp it shares,

Though low before it courtly Christians bow,

Leave its red mark on Younger England's brow.

We love, we honor, the maternal dame,

But let her priesthood wear a modest name,

While through the waters of the Pilgrim's bay

A new-born Mayflower shows her keels the way.

Too old grew Britain for her mother's beads,—

Must we be necklaced with her children's creeds?

Welcome alike in surplice or in gown

The loyal lieges of the Heavenly Crown!

We greet with cheerful, not submissive, mien

A sister church, but not a mitred Queen!

A few brief flutters, and the unwilling Muse,

Who feared the flight she hated to refuse,

Shall fold the wings whose gayer plumes are shed,

Here where at first her half-fledged pinions spread.

Well I remember in the long ago

How in the forest shades of Fontainebleau,

Strained through a fissure in a rocky cell,

One crystal drop with measured cadence fell.

Still, as of old, forever bright and clear,

The fissured cavern drops its wonted tear,

And wondrous virtue, simple folk aver,

Lies in that teardrop of la roche qui pleure.

Of old I wandered by the river's side

Between whose banks the mighty waters glide,

Where vast Niagara, hurrying to its fall,

Builds and unbuilds its ever-tumbling wall;

Oft in my dreams I hear the rush and roar

Of battling floods, and feel the trembling shore,

As the huge torrent, girded for its leap,

With bellowing thunders plunges down the steep.

Not less distinct, from memory's pictured urn,

The gray old rock, the leafy woods, return;

Robed in their pride the lofty oaks appear,

And once again with quickened sense I hear,

Through the low murmur of the leaves that stir,

The tinkling teardrop of la roche qui pleure.

So when the third ripe century stands complete,

As once again the sons of Harvard meet,

Rejoicing, numerous as the seashore sands,

Drawn from all quarters,—farthest distant lands,

Where through the reeds the scaly saurian steals,

Where cold Alaska feeds her floundering seals,

Where Plymouth, glorying, wears her iron crown,

Where Sacramento sees the suns go down;

Nay, from the cloisters whence the refluent tide

Wafts their pale students to our Mother's side,—

Mid all the tumult that the day shall bring,

While all the echoes shout, and roar, and ring,

These tinkling lines, oblivion's easy prey,

Once more emerging to the light of day,

Not all unpleasing to the listening ear

Shall wake the memories of this bygone year,

Heard as I hear the measured drops that flow

From the gray rock of wooded Fontainebleau.

Yet, ere I leave, one loving word for all

Those fresh young lives that wait our Mother's call:

One gift is yours, kind Nature's richest dower,—

Youth, the fair bud that holds life's opening flower,

Full of high hopes no coward doubts enchain,

With all the future throbbing in its brain,

And mightiest instincts which the beating heart

Fills with the fire its burning waves impart.

O joyous youth, whose glory is to dare,—

Thy foot firm planted on the lowest stair,

Thine eye uplifted to the loftiest height

Where Fame stands beckoning in the rosy light,

Thanks for thy flattering tales, thy fond deceits,

Thy loving lies, thy cheerful smiling cheats

Nature's rash promise every day is broke,—

A thousand acorns breed a single oak,

The myriad blooms that make the orchard gay

In barren beauty throw their lives away;

Yet shall we quarrel with the sap that yields

The painted blossoms which adorn the fields,

When the fair orchard wears its May-day suit

Of pink-white petals, for its scanty fruit?

Thrice happy hours, in hope's illusion dressed,

In fancy's cradle nurtured and caressed,

Though rich the spoils that ripening years may bring,

To thee the dewdrops of the Orient cling,—

Not all the dye-stuffs from the vats of truth

Can match the rainbow on the robes of youth!

Dear unborn children, to our Mother's trust

We leave you, fearless, when we lie in dust:

While o'er these walls the Christian banner waves

From hallowed lips shall flow the truth that saves;

While o'er those portals Veritas you read

No church shall bind you with its human creed.

Take from the past the best its toil has won,

But learn betimes its slavish ruts to shun.

Pass the old tree whose withered leaves are shed,

Quit the old paths that error loved to tread,

And a new wreath of living blossoms seek,

A narrower pathway up a loftier peak;

Lose not your reverence, but unmanly fear

Leave far behind you, all who enter here!

As once of old from Ida's lofty height

The flaming signal flashed across the night,

So Harvard's beacon sheds its unspent rays

Till every watch-tower shows its kindling blaze.

Caught from a spark and fanned by every gale,

A brighter radiance gilds the roofs of Yale;

Amherst and Williams bid their flambeaus shine,

And Bowdoin answers through her groves of pine;

O'er Princeton's sands the far reflections steal,

Where mighty Edwards stamped his iron heel;

Nay, on the hill where old beliefs were bound

Fast as if Styx had girt them nine times round,

Bursts such a light that trembling souls inquire

If the whole church of Calvin is on fire!

Well may they ask, for what so brightly burns

As a dry creed that nothing ever learns?

Thus link by link is knit the flaming chain

Lit by the torch of Harvard's hallowed plain.

Thy son, thy servant, dearest Mother mine,

Lays this poor offering on thy holy shrine,

An autumn leaflet to the wild winds tost,

Touched by the finger of November's frost,

With sweet, sad memories of that earlier day,

And all that listened to my first-born lay.

With grateful heart this glorious morn I see,—

Would that my tribute worthier were of thee!

POST-PRANDIAL

PHI BETA KAPPA

WENDELL PHILLIPS, ORATOR; CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, POET

1881

"THE Dutch have taken Holland,"—so the schoolboys used to say;

The Dutch have taken Harvard,—no doubt of that to-day!

For the Wendells were low Dutchmen, and all their vrows were Vans;

And the Breitmanns are high Dutchmen, and here is honest Hans.

Mynheers, you both are welcome! Fair cousin Wendell P.,

Our ancestors were dwellers beside the Zuyder Zee;

Both Grotius and Erasmus were countrymen of we,

And Vondel was our namesake, though he spelt it with a V.

It is well old Evert Jansen sought a dwelling over sea

On the margin of the Hudson, where he sampled you and me

Through our grandsires and great-grandsires, for you would n't quite

agree

With the steady-going burghers along the Zuyder Zee.

Like our Motley's John of Barnveld, you have always been inclined

To speak,—well,—somewhat frankly,—to let us know your mind,

And the Mynheers would have told you to be cautious what you said,

Or else that silver tongue of yours might cost your precious head.

But we're very glad you've kept it; it was always Freedom's own,

And whenever Reason chose it she found a royal throne;

You have whacked us with your sceptre; our backs were little harmed,

And while we rubbed our bruises we owned we had been charmed.

And you, our quasi Dutchman, what welcome should be yours

For all the wise prescriptions that work your laughter-cures?

"Shake before taking"?—not a bit,—the bottle-cure's a sham;

Take before shaking, and you 'll find it shakes your diaphragm.

"Hans Breitmann gif a barty,—vhere is dot barty now?"

On every shelf where wit is stored to smooth the careworn brow

A health to stout Hans Breitmann! How long before we see

Another Hans as handsome,—as bright a man as he!

THE FLANEUR

BOSTON COMMON, DECEMBER 6, 1882

DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENUS

I LOVE all sights of earth and skies,

From flowers that glow to stars that shine;

The comet and the penny show,

All curious things, above, below,

Hold each in turn my wandering eyes:

I claim the Christian Pagan's line,

Humani nihil,—even so,—

And is not human life divine?

When soft the western breezes blow,

And strolling youths meet sauntering maids,

I love to watch the stirring trades

Beneath the Vallombrosa shades

Our much-enduring elms bestow;

The vender and his rhetoric's flow,

That lambent stream of liquid lies;

The bait he dangles from his line,

The gudgeon and his gold-washed prize.

I halt before the blazoned sign

That bids me linger to admire

The drama time can never tire,

The little hero of the hunch,

With iron arm and soul of fire,

And will that works his fierce desire,—

Untamed, unscared, unconquered Punch

My ear a pleasing torture finds

In tones the withered sibyl grinds,—

The dame sans merci's broken strain,

Whom I erewhile, perchance, have known,

When Orleans filled the Bourbon throne,

A siren singing by the Seine.

But most I love the tube that spies

The orbs celestial in their march;

That shows the comet as it whisks

Its tail across the planets' disks,

As if to blind their blood-shot eyes;

Or wheels so close against the sun

We tremble at the thought of risks

Our little spinning ball may run,

To pop like corn that children parch,

From summer something overdone,

And roll, a cinder, through the skies.

Grudge not to-day the scanty fee

To him who farms the firmament,

To whom the Milky Way is free;

Who holds the wondrous crystal key,

The silent Open Sesame

That Science to her sons has lent;

Who takes his toll, and lifts the bar

That shuts the road to sun and star.

If Venus only comes to time,

(And prophets say she must and shall,)

To-day will hear the tinkling chime

Of many a ringing silver dime,

For him whose optic glass supplies

The crowd with astronomic eyes,—

The Galileo of the Mall.

Dimly the transit morning broke;

The sun seemed doubting what to do,

As one who questions how to dress,

And takes his doublets from the press,

And halts between the old and new.

Please Heaven he wear his suit of blue,

Or don, at least, his ragged cloak,

With rents that show the azure through!

I go the patient crowd to join

That round the tube my eyes discern,

The last new-comer of the file,

And wait, and wait, a weary while,

And gape, and stretch, and shrug, and smile,

(For each his place must fairly earn,

Hindmost and foremost, in his turn,)

Till hitching onward, pace by pace,

I gain at last the envied place,

And pay the white exiguous coin:

The sun and I are face to face;

He glares at me, I stare at him;

And lo! my straining eye has found

A little spot that, black and round,

Lies near the crimsoned fire-orb's rim.

O blessed, beauteous evening star,

Well named for her whom earth adores,—

The Lady of the dove-drawn car,—

I know thee in thy white simar;

But veiled in black, a rayless spot,

Blank as a careless scribbler's blot,

Stripped of thy robe of silvery flame,—

The stolen robe that Night restores

When Day has shut his golden doors,—

I see thee, yet I know thee not;

And canst thou call thyself the same?

A black, round spot,—and that is all;

And such a speck our earth would be

If he who looks upon the stars

Through the red atmosphere of Mars

Could see our little creeping ball

Across the disk of crimson crawl

As I our sister planet see.

And art thou, then, a world like ours,

Flung from the orb that whirled our own

A molten pebble from its zone?

How must thy burning sands absorb

The fire-waves of the blazing orb,

Thy chain so short, thy path so near,

Thy flame-defying creatures hear

The maelstroms of the photosphere!

And is thy bosom decked with flowers

That steal their bloom from scalding showers?

And bast thou cities, domes, and towers,

And life, and love that makes it dear,

And death that fills thy tribes with fear?

Lost in my dream, my spirit soars

Through paths the wandering angels know;

My all-pervading thought explores

The azure ocean's lucent shores;

I leave my mortal self below,

As up the star-lit stairs I climb,

And still the widening view reveals

In endless rounds the circling wheels

That build the horologe of time.

New spheres, new suns, new systems gleam;

The voice no earth-born echo hears

Steals softly on my ravished ears

I hear them "singing as they shine"—

A mortal's voice dissolves my dream:

My patient neighbor, next in line,

Hints gently there are those who wait.

O guardian of the starry gate,

What coin shall pay this debt of mine?

Too slight thy claim, too small the fee

That bids thee turn the potent key.

The Tuscan's hand has placed in thine.

Forgive my own the small affront,

The insult of the proffered dime;

Take it, O friend, since this thy wont,

But still shall faithful memory be

A bankrupt debtor unto thee,

And pay thee with a grateful rhyme.

AVE

PRELUDE TO "ILLUSTRATED POEMS"

FULL well I know the frozen hand has come

That smites the songs of grove and garden dumb,

And chills sad autumn's last chrysanthemum;

Yet would I find one blossom, if I might,

Ere the dark loom that weaves the robe of white

Hides all the wrecks of summer out of sight.

Sometimes in dim November's narrowing day,

When all the season's pride has passed away,

As mid the blackened stems and leaves we stray,

We spy in sheltered nook or rocky cleft

A starry disk the hurrying winds have left,

Of all its blooming sisterhood bereft.

Some pansy, with its wondering baby eyes

Poor wayside nursling!—fixed in blank surprise

At the rough welcome of unfriendly skies;

Or golden daisy,—will it dare disclaim

The lion's tooth, to wear this gentler name?

Or blood-red salvia, with its lips aflame.

The storms have stripped the lily and the rose,

Still on its cheek the flush of summer glows,

And all its heart-leaves kindle as it blows.

So had I looked some bud of song to find

The careless winds of autumn left behind,

With these of earlier seasons' growth to bind.

Ah me! my skies are dark with sudden grief,

A flower lies faded on my garnered sheaf;

Yet let the sunshine gild this virgin leaf,

The joyous, blessed sunshine of the past,

Still with me, though the heavens are overcast,—

The light that shines while life and memory last.

Go, pictured rhymes, for loving readers meant;

Bring back the smiles your jocund morning lent,

And warm their hearts with sunbeams yet unspent!

BEVERLY FARMS, July 24, 1884.

KING'S CHAPEL

READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY

Is it a weanling's weakness for the past

That in the stormy, rebel-breeding town,

Swept clean of relics by the levelling blast,

Still keeps our gray old chapel's name of "King's,"

Still to its outworn symbols fondly clings,—

Its unchurched mitres and its empty crown?

Poor harmless emblems! All has shrunk away

That made them gorgons in the patriot's eyes;

The priestly plaything harms us not to-day;

The gilded crown is but a pleasing show,

An old-world heirloom, left from long ago,

Wreck of the past that memory bids us prize,

Lightly we glance the fresh-cut marbles o'er;

Those two of earlier date our eyes enthrall:

The proud old Briton's by the western door,

And hers, the Lady of Colonial days,

Whose virtues live in long-drawn classic phrase,—

The fair Francesca of the southern wall.

Ay! those were goodly men that Reynolds drew,

And stately dames our Copley's canvas holds,

To their old Church, their Royal Master, true,

Proud of the claim their valiant sires had earned,

That "gentle blood," not lightly to be spurned,

Save by the churl ungenerous Nature moulds.

All vanished! It were idle to complain

That ere the fruits shall come the flowers must fall;

Yet somewhat we have lost amidst our gain,

Some rare ideals time may not restore,—

The charm of courtly breeding, seen no more,

And reverence, dearest ornament of all.

Thus musing, to the western wall I came,

Departing: lo! a tablet fresh and fair,

Where glistened many a youth's remembered name

In golden letters on the snow-white stone,—

Young lives these aisles and arches once have known,

Their country's bleeding altar might not spare.

These died that we might claim a soil unstained,

Save by the blood of heroes; their bequests

A realm unsevered and a race unchained.

Has purer blood through Norman veins come down

From the rough knights that clutched the Saxon's crown

Than warmed the pulses in these faithful breasts?

These, too, shall live in history's deathless page,

High on the slow-wrought pedestals of fame,

Ranged with the heroes of remoter age;

They could not die who left their nation free,

Firm as the rock, unfettered as the sea,

Its heaven unshadowed by the cloud of shame.

While on the storied past our memory dwells,

Our grateful tribute shall not be denied,—

The wreath, the cross of rustling immortelles;

And willing hands shall clear each darkening bust,

As year by year sifts down the clinging dust

On Shirley's beauty and on Vassall's pride.

But for our own, our loved and lost, we bring

With throbbing hearts and tears that still must flow,

In full-heaped hands, the opening flowers of spring,

Lilies half-blown, and budding roses, red

As their young cheeks, before the blood was shed

That lent their morning bloom its generous glow.

Ah, who shall count a rescued nation's debt,

Or sum in words our martyrs' silent claims?

Who shall our heroes' dread exchange forget,—

All life, youth, hope, could promise to allure

For all that soul could brave or flesh endure?

They shaped our future; we but carve their names.

HYMN

FOR THE SAME OCCASION

SUNG BY THE CONGREGATION TO THE TUNE OF TALLIS'S EVENING HYMN

O'ERSHADOWED by the walls that climb,

Piled up in air by living hands,

A rock amid the waves of time,

Our gray old house of worship stands.

High o'er the pillared aisles we love

The symbols of the past look down;

Unharmed, unharming, throned above,

Behold the mitre and the crown!

Let not our younger faith forget

The loyal souls that held them dear;

The prayers we read their tears have wet,

The hymns we sing they loved to hear.

The memory of their earthly throne

Still to our holy temple clings,

But here the kneeling suppliants own

One only Lord, the King of kings.

Hark! while our hymn of grateful praise

The solemn echoing vaults prolong,

The far-off voice of earlier days

Blends with our own in hallowed song:

To Him who ever lives and reigns,

Whom all the hosts of heaven adore,

Who lent the life His breath sustains,

Be glory now and evermore!

HYMN.—THE WORD OF PROMISE

(by supposition)

An Hymn set forth to be sung by the Great Assembly at Newtown, [Mass.] Mo. 12. 1. 1636.

[Written by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, eldest son of Rev.

ABIEL HOLMES, eighth Pastor of the First Church in

Cambridge, Massachusetts.]

LORD, Thou hast led us as of old

Thine Arm led forth the chosen Race

Through Foes that raged, through Floods that roll'd,

To Canaan's far-off Dwelling-Place.

Here is Thy bounteous Table spread,

Thy Manna falls on every Field,

Thy Grace our hungering Souls hath fed,

Thy Might hath been our Spear and Shield.

Lift high Thy Buckler, Lord of Hosts!

Guard Thou Thy Servants, Sons and Sires,

While on the Godless heathen Coasts

They light Thine Israel's Altar-fires!

The salvage Wilderness remote

Shall hear Thy Works and Wonders sung;

So from the Rock that Moses smote

The Fountain of the Desart sprung.

Soon shall the slumbering Morn awake,

From wandering Stars of Errour freed,

When Christ the Bread of Heaven shall break

For Saints that own a common Creed.

The Walls that fence His Flocks apart

Shall crack and crumble in Decay,

And every Tongue and every Heart

Shall welcome in the new-born Day.

Then shall His glorious Church rejoice

His Word of Promise to recall,—

ONE SHELTERING FOLD, ONE SHEPHERD'S VOICE,

ONE GOD AND FATHER OVER ALL!

HYMN

READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT HUDSON, WISCONSIN

JUNE 7, 1877

ANGEL of love, for every grief

Its soothing balm thy mercy brings,

For every pang its healing leaf,

For homeless want, thine outspread, wings.

Enough for thee the pleading eye,

The knitted brow of silent pain;

The portals open to a sigh

Without the clank of bolt or chain.

Who is our brother? He that lies

Left at the wayside, bruised and sore

His need our open hand supplies,

His welcome waits him at our door.

Not ours to ask in freezing tones

His race, his calling, or his creed;

Each heart the tie of kinship owns,

When those are human veins that bleed.

Here stand the champions to defend

From every wound that flesh can feel;

Here science, patience, skill, shall blend

To save, to calm, to help, to heal.

Father of Mercies! Weak and frail,

Thy guiding hand Thy children ask;

Let not the Great Physician fail

To aid us in our holy task.

Source of all truth, and love, and light,

That warm and cheer our earthly days,

Be ours to serve Thy will aright,

Be Thine the glory and the praise!

ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD

I.

FALLEN with autumn's falling leaf

Ere yet his summer's noon was past,

Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,—

What words can match a woe so vast!

And whose the chartered claim to speak

The sacred grief where all have part,

Where sorrow saddens every cheek

And broods in every aching heart?

Yet Nature prompts the burning phrase

That thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,

The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,

The silent tear that love lets fall.

In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,

Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—-

The singers of the new-born time,

And trembling age with outworn lyre.

No room for pride, no place for blame,—

We fling our blossoms on the grave,

Pale,—scentless,—faded,—all we claim,

This only,—what we had we gave.

Ah, could the grief of all who mourn

Blend in one voice its bitter cry,

The wail to heaven's high arches borne

Would echo through the caverned sky.

II.

O happiest land, whose peaceful choice

Fills with a breath its empty throne!

God, speaking through thy people's voice,

Has made that voice for once His own.

No angry passion shakes the state

Whose weary servant seeks for rest;

And who could fear that scowling hate

Would strike at that unguarded breast?

He stands, unconscious of his doom,

In manly strength, erect, serene;

Around him Summer spreads her bloom;

He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!

How swift the sudden flash of woe

Where all was bright as childhood's dream!

As if from heaven's ethereal bow

Had leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.

Blot the foul deed from history's page;

Let not the all-betraying sun

Blush for the day that stains an age

When murder's blackest wreath was won.

III.

Pale on his couch the sufferer lies,

The weary battle-ground of pain

Love tends his pillow; Science tries

Her every art, alas! in vain.

The strife endures how long! how long!

Life, death, seem balanced in the scale,

While round his bed a viewless throng

Await each morrow's changing tale.

In realms the desert ocean parts

What myriads watch with tear-filled eyes,

His pulse-beats echoing in their hearts,

His breathings counted with their sighs!

Slowly the stores of life are spent,

Yet hope still battles with despair;

Will Heaven not yield when knees are bent?

Answer, O thou that hearest prayer.

But silent is the brazen sky;

On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,

Unswerving Nature's mute reply,

Bound in her adamantine chain.

Not ours the verdict to decide

Whom death shall claim or skill shall save;

The hero's life though Heaven denied,

It gave our land a martyr's grave.

Nor count the teaching vainly sent

How human hearts their griefs may share,—

The lesson woman's love has lent,

What hope may do, what faith can bear!

Farewell! the leaf-strown earth enfolds

Our stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears,

And autumn's golden sun beholds

A nation bowed, a world in tears.

THE GOLDEN FLOWER

WHEN Advent dawns with lessening days,

While earth awaits the angels' hymn;

When bare as branching coral sways

In whistling winds each leafless limb;

When spring is but a spendthrift's dream,

And summer's wealth a wasted dower,

Nor dews nor sunshine may redeem,—

Then autumn coins his Golden Flower.

Soft was the violet's vernal hue,

Fresh was the rose's morning red,

Full-orbed the stately dahlia grew,—

All gone! their short-lived splendors shed.

The shadows, lengthening, stretch at noon;

The fields are stripped, the groves are dumb;

The frost-flowers greet the icy moon,—

Then blooms the bright chrysanthemum.

The stiffening turf is white with snow,

Yet still its radiant disks are seen

Where soon the hallowed morn will show

The wreath and cross of Christmas green;

As if in autumn's dying days

It heard the heavenly song afar,

And opened all its glowing rays,

The herald lamp of Bethlehem's star.

Orphan of summer, kindly sent

To cheer the fading year's decline,

In all that pitying Heaven has lent

No fairer pledge of hope than thine.

Yes! June lies hid beneath the snow,

And winter's unborn heir shall claim

For every seed that sleeps below

A spark that kindles into flame.

Thy smile the scowl of winter braves

Last of the bright-robed, flowery train,

Soft sighing o'er the garden graves,

"Farewell! farewell! we meet again!"

So may life's chill November bring

Hope's golden flower, the last of all,

Before we hear the angels sing

Where blossoms never fade and fall!

HAIL, COLUMBIA!

1798

THE FIRST VERSE OF THE SONG

BY JOSEPH HOPKINSON

"HAIL, Columbia! Happy land!

Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band,

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause,

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause,

And when the storm of war was gone

Enjoy'd the peace your valor won.

Let independence be our boast,

Ever mindful what it cost;

Ever grateful for the prize,

Let its altar reach the skies.

"Firm—united—let us be,

Rallying round our Liberty;

As a band of brothers join'd,

Peace and safety we shall find."

ADDITIONAL VERSES

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE COMMITTEE FOR THE CONSTITUTIONAL CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION AT PHILADELPHIA,

1887

LOOK our ransomed shores around,

Peace and safety we have found!

Welcome, friends who once were foes!

Welcome, friends who once were foes,

To all the conquering years have gained,—

A nation's rights, a race unchained!

Children of the day new-born,

Mindful of its glorious morn,

Let the pledge our fathers signed

Heart to heart forever bind!

While the stars of heaven shall burn,

While the ocean tides return,

Ever may the circling sun

Find the Many still are One!

Graven deep with edge of steel,

Crowned with Victory's crimson seal,

All the world their names shall read!

All the world their names shall read,

Enrolled with his, the Chief that led

The hosts whose blood for us was shed.

Pay our sires their children's debt,

Love and honor, nor forget

Only Union's golden key

Guards the Ark of Liberty!

While the stars of heaven shall burn,

While the ocean tides return,

Ever may the circling sun

Find the Many still are One!

Hail, Columbia! strong and free,

Throned in hearts from sea to sea

Thy march triumphant still pursue!

Thy march triumphant still pursue

With peaceful stride from zone to zone,

Till Freedom finds the world her own.

Blest in Union's holy ties,

Let our grateful song arise,

Every voice its tribute lend,

All in loving chorus blend!

While the stars in heaven shall burn,

While the ocean tides return,

Ever shall the circling sun

Find the Many still are One!

POEM

FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE W. CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA

WELCOME, thrice welcome is thy silvery gleam,

Thou long-imprisoned stream!

Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads

As plashing raindrops to the flowery meads,

As summer's breath to Avon's whispering reeds!

From rock-walled channels, drowned in rayless night,

Leap forth to life and light;

Wake from the darkness of thy troubled dream,

And greet with answering smile the morning's beam!

No purer lymph the white-limbed Naiad knows

Than from thy chalice flows;

Not the bright spring of Afric's sunny shores,

Starry with spangles washed from golden ores,

Nor glassy stream Bandusia's fountain pours,

Nor wave translucent where Sabrina fair

Braids her loose-flowing hair,

Nor the swift current, stainless as it rose

Where chill Arveiron steals from Alpine snows.

Here shall the traveller stay his weary feet

To seek thy calm retreat;

Here at high noon the brown-armed reaper rest;

Here, when the shadows, lengthening from the west,

Call the mute song-bird to his leafy nest,

Matron and maid shall chat the cares away

That brooded o'er the day,

While flocking round them troops of children meet,

And all the arches ring with laughter sweet.

Here shall the steed, his patient life who spends

In toil that never ends,

Hot from his thirsty tramp o'er hill and plain,

Plunge his red nostrils, while the torturing rein

Drops in loose loops beside his floating mane;

Nor the poor brute that shares his master's lot

Find his small needs forgot,—

Truest of humble, long-enduring friends,

Whose presence cheers, whose guardian care

defends!

Here lark and thrush and nightingale shall sip,

And skimming swallows dip,

And strange shy wanderers fold their lustrous plumes

Fragrant from bowers that lent their sweet perfumes

Where Paestum's rose or Persia's lilac blooms;

Here from his cloud the eagle stoop to drink

At the full basin's brink,

And whet his beak against its rounded lip,

His glossy feathers glistening as they drip.

Here shall the dreaming poet linger long,

Far from his listening throng,—

Nor lute nor lyre his trembling hand shall bring;

Here no frail Muse shall imp her crippled wing,

No faltering minstrel strain his throat to sing!

These hallowed echoes who shall dare to claim

Whose tuneless voice would shame,

Whose jangling chords with jarring notes would wrong

The nymphs that heard the Swan if Avon's song?

What visions greet the pilgrim's raptured eyes!

What ghosts made real rise!

The dead return,—they breathe,—they live again,

Joined by the host of Fancy's airy train,

Fresh from the springs of Shakespeare's quickening brain!

The stream that slakes the soul's diviner thirst

Here found the sunbeams first;

Rich with his fame, not less shall memory prize

The gracious gift that humbler wants supplies.

O'er the wide waters reached the hand that gave

To all this bounteous wave,

With health and strength and joyous beauty fraught;

Blest be the generous pledge of friendship, brought

From the far home of brothers' love, unbought!

Long may fair Avon's fountain flow, enrolled

With storied shrines of old,

Castalia's spring, Egeria's dewy cave,

And Horeb's rock the God of Israel slave!

Land of our fathers, ocean makes us two,

But heart to heart is true!

Proud is your towering daughter in the West,

Yet in her burning life-blood reign confest

Her mother's pulses beating in her breast.

This holy fount, whose rills from heaven descend,

Its gracious drops shall lend,—

Both foreheads bathed in that baptismal dew,

And love make one the old home and the new!

August 29, 1887.

TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN

WHEN evening's shadowy fingers fold

The flowers of every hue,

Some shy, half-opened bud will hold

Its drop of morning's dew.

Sweeter with every sunlit hour

The trembling sphere has grown,

Till all the fragrance of the flower

Becomes at last its own.

We that have sung perchance may find

Our little meed of praise,

And round our pallid temples bind

The wreath of fading bays.

Ah, Poet, who hast never spent

Thy breath in idle strains,

For thee the dewdrop morning lent

Still in thy heart remains;

Unwasted, in its perfumed cell

It waits the evening gale;

Then to the azure whence it fell

Its lingering sweets exhale.

FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY, BOSTON

PROUDLY, beneath her glittering dome,

Our three-hilled city greets the morn;

Here Freedom found her virgin home,—

The Bethlehem where her babe was born.

The lordly roofs of traffic rise

Amid the smoke of household fires;

High o'er them in the peaceful skies

Faith points to heaven her clustering spires.

Can Freedom breathe if ignorance reign?

Shall Commerce thrive where anarchs rule?

Will Faith her half-fledged brood retain

If darkening counsels cloud the school?

Let in the light! from every age

Some gleams of garnered wisdom pour,

And, fixed on thought's electric page,

Wait all their radiance to restore.

Let in the light! in diamond mines

Their gems invite the hand that delves;

So learning's treasured jewels shine

Ranged on the alcove's ordered shelves.

From history's scroll the splendor streams,

From science leaps the living ray;

Flashed from the poet's glowing dreams

The opal fires of fancy play.

Let in the light! these windowed walls

Shall brook no shadowing colonnades,

But day shall flood the silent halls

Till o'er yon hills the sunset fades.

Behind the ever open gate

No pikes shall fence a crumbling throne,

No lackeys cringe, no courtiers wait,

This palace is the people's own!

Heirs of our narrow-girdled past,

How fair the prospect we survey,

Where howled unheard the wintry blast,

And rolled unchecked the storm-swept bay!

These chosen precincts, set apart

For learned toil and holy shrines,

Yield willing homes to every art

That trains, or strengthens, or refines.

Here shall the sceptred mistress reign

Who heeds her meanest subject's call,

Sovereign of all their vast domain,

The queen, the handmaid of them all!

November 26, 1888.

FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S IN MEMORY OF A SON OF ARCHDEACON FARRAR

AFAR he sleeps whose name is graven here,

Where loving hearts his early doom deplore;

Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear

Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing to restore.

BOSTON, April 12, 1891.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

1819-1891

THOU shouldst have sung the swan-song for the choir

That filled our groves with music till the day

Lit the last hilltop with its reddening fire,

And evening listened for thy lingering lay.

But thou hast found thy voice in realms afar

Where strains celestial blend their notes with thine;

Some cloudless sphere beneath a happier star

Welcomes the bright-winged spirit we resign.

How Nature mourns thee in the still retreat

Where passed in peace thy love-enchanted hours!

Where shall she find an eye like thine to greet

Spring's earliest footprints on her opening flowers?

Have the pale wayside weeds no fond regret

For him who read the secrets they enfold?

Shall the proud spangles of the field forget

The verse that lent new glory to their gold?

And ye whose carols wooed his infant ear,

Whose chants with answering woodnotes he repaid,

Have ye no song his spirit still may hear

From Elmwood's vaults of overarching shade?

Friends of his studious hours, who thronged to teach

The deep-read scholar all your varied lore,

Shall he no longer seek your shelves to reach

The treasure missing from his world-wide store?

This singer whom we long have held so dear

Was Nature's darling, shapely, strong, and fair;

Of keenest wit, of judgment crystal-clear,

Easy of converse, courteous, debonair,

Fit for the loftiest or the lowliest lot,

Self-poised, imperial, yet of simplest ways;

At home alike in castle or in cot,

True to his aim, let others blame or praise.

Freedom he found an heirloom from his sires;

Song, letters, statecraft, shared his years in turn;

All went to feed the nation's altar-fires

Whose mourning children wreathe his funeral urn.

He loved New England,—people, language, soil,

Unweaned by exile from her arid breast.

Farewell awhile, white-handed son of toil,

Go with her brown-armed laborers to thy rest.

Peace to thy slumber in the forest shade!

Poet and patriot, every gift was thine;

Thy name shall live while summers bloom and fade,

And grateful Memory guard thy leafy shrine!

===

POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS

TO THE ELEVEN LADIES

WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP ON THE TWENTY-NINTH OF AUGUST, M DCCC LXXXIX

"WHO gave this cup?" The secret thou wouldst steal

Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal:

No mortal's eye shall read it till he first

Cool the red throat of thirst.

If on the golden floor one draught remain,

Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain;

Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know

The names enrolled below.

Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well

Those modest names the graven letters spell

Hide from the sight; but wait, and thou shalt see

Who the good angels be.

Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift

That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift

Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry,—

Their names shall meet thine eye.

Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven

Alas! the clustered Pleiads are but seven;

Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few,—

The Graces must add two.

"For whom this gift?" For one who all too long

Clings to his bough among the groves of song;

Autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded wing

To greet a second spring.

Dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the cup may hold,

Bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold

Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain,

Its fragrance will remain.

Better love's perfume in the empty bowl

Than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul;

Sweeter than song that ever poet sung,

It makes an old heart young!

THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET

How beauteous is the bond

In the manifold array

Of its promises to pay,

While the eight per cent it gives

And the rate at which one lives

Correspond!

But at last the bough is bare

Where the coupons one by one

Through their ripening days have run,

And the bond, a beggar now,

Seeks investment anyhow,

Anywhere!

CACOETHES SCRIBENDI

IF all the trees in all the woods were men;

And each and every blade of grass a pen;

If every leaf on every shrub and tree

Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea

Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes

Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,

And for ten thousand ages, day and night,

The human race should write, and write, and write,

Till all the pens and paper were used up,

And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,

Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink

Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

THE ROSE AND THE FERN

LADY, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn,

Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower

High overhead the trellised roses burn;

Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern,—

A leaf without a flower.

What though the rose leaves fall? They still are sweet,

And have been lovely in their beauteous prime,

While the bare frond seems ever to repeat,

"For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet

The joyous flowering time!"

Heed thou the lesson. Life has leaves to tread

And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows;

Wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed,

But while its petals still are burning red

Gather life's full-blown rose!

I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU

I LIKE YOU Met I LOVE You, face to face;

The path was narrow, and they could not pass.

I LIKE YOU smiled; I LOVE YOU cried, Alas!

And so they halted for a little space.

"Turn thou and go before," I LOVE YOU said,

"Down the green pathway, bright with many a flower;

Deep in the valley, lo! my bridal bower

Awaits thee." But I LIKE YOU shook his head.

Then while they lingered on the span-wide shelf

That shaped a pathway round the rocky ledge,

I LIKE You bared his icy dagger's edge,

And first he slew I LOVE You,—then himself.

LA MAISON D'OR

(BAR HARBOR)

FROM this fair home behold on either side

The restful mountains or the restless sea

So the warm sheltering walls of life divide

Time and its tides from still eternity.

Look on the waves: their stormy voices teach

That not on earth may toil and struggle cease.

Look on the mountains: better far than speech

Their silent promise of eternal peace.

TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE

Too young for love?

Ah, say not so!

Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow

Wait not for spring to pass away,—

Love's summer months begin with May!

Too young for love?

Ah, say not so!

Too young? Too young?

Ah, no! no! no!

Too young for love?

Ah, say not so,

To practise all love learned in May.

June soon will come with lengthened day

While daisies bloom and tulips glow!

Too young for love?

Ah, say not so!

Too young? Too young?

Ah, no! no! no!

THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES

LOOK out! Look out, boys! Clear the track!

The witches are here! They've all come back!

They hanged them high,—No use! No use!

What cares a witch for a hangman's noose?

They buried them deep, but they wouldn't lie still,

For cats and witches are hard to kill;

They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,—

Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!

A couple of hundred years, or so,

They had knocked about in the world below,

When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call,

And a homesick feeling seized them all;

For he came from a place they knew full well,

And many a tale he had to tell.

They longed to visit the haunts of men,

To see the old dwellings they knew again,

And ride on their broomsticks all around

Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.

In Essex county there's many a roof

Well known to him of the cloven hoof;

The small square windows are full in view

Which the midnight hags went sailing through,

On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high,

Seen like shadows against the sky;

Crossing the track of owls and bats,

Hugging before them their coal-black cats.

Well did they know, those gray old wives,

The sights we see in our daily drives

Shimmer of lake and shine of sea,

Browne's bare hill with its lonely tree,

(It was n't then as we see it now,

With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;)

Dusky nooks in the Essex woods,

Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes,

Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake

Glide through his forests of fern and brake;

Ipswich River; its old stone bridge;

Far off Andover's Indian Ridge,

And many a scene where history tells

Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,—

Of "Norman's Woe" with its tale of dread,

Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead,

(The fearful story that turns men pale

Don't bid me tell it,—my speech would fail.)

Who would not, will not, if he can,

Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,—

Rest in the bowers her bays enfold,

Loved by the sachems and squaws of old?

Home where the white magnolias bloom,

Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume,

Hugged by the woods and kissed by the sea!

Where is the Eden like to thee?

For that "couple of hundred years, or so,"

There had been no peace in the world below;

The witches still grumbling, "It is n't fair;

Come, give us a taste of the upper air!

We 've had enough of your sulphur springs,

And the evil odor that round them clings;

We long for a drink that is cool and nice,—

Great buckets of water with Wenham ice;

We've served you well up-stairs, you know;

You 're a good old—fellow—come, let us go!"

I don't feel sure of his being good,

But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,—

As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,—

(He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.)

So what does he do but up and shout

To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!"

To mind his orders was all he knew;

The gates swung open, and out they flew.

"Where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried.

"Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied.

"They 've been in—the place you know—so long

They smell of brimstone uncommon strong;

But they've gained by being left alone,—

Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown."

"And where is my cat?" a vixen squalled.

"Yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled,

And began to call them all by name

As fast as they called the cats, they came

There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim,

And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim,

And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau,

And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,

And many another that came at call,—

It would take too long to count them all.

All black,—one could hardly tell which was which,

But every cat knew his own old witch;

And she knew hers as hers knew her,—

Ah, didn't they curl their tails and purr!

No sooner the withered hags were free

Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree;

I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes,

But the Essex people had dreadful times.

The Swampscott fishermen still relate

How a strange sea-monster stole their bait;

How their nets were tangled in loops and knots,

And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots.

Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops,

And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops.

A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,—

It was all the work of those hateful queans!

A dreadful panic began at "Pride's,"

Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides,

And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms

'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.

Now when the Boss of the Beldams found

That without his leave they were ramping round,

He called,—they could hear him twenty miles,

From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles;

The deafest old granny knew his tone

Without the trick of the telephone.

"Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,—

"At your games of old, without asking me!

I'll give you a little job to do

That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!"

They came, of course, at their master's call,

The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all;

He led the hags to a railway train

The horses were trying to drag in vain.

"Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun,

And here are the cars you've got to run.

The driver may just unhitch his team,

We don't want horses, we don't want steam;

You may keep your old black cats to hug,

But the loaded train you've got to lug."

Since then on many a car you 'll see

A broomstick plain as plain can be;

On every stick there's a witch astride,—

The string you see to her leg is tied.

She will do a mischief if she can,

But the string is held by a careful man,

And whenever the evil-minded witch

Would cut some caper, he gives a twitch.

As for the hag, you can't see her,

But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr,

And now and then, as a car goes by,

You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.

Often you've looked on a rushing train,

But just what moved it was not so plain.

It couldn't be those wires above,

For they could neither pull nor shove;

Where was the motor that made it go

You couldn't guess, but now you know.

Remember my rhymes when you ride again

On the rattling rail by the broomstick train!

TARTARUS

WHILE in my simple gospel creed

That "God is Love" so plain I read,

Shall dreams of heathen birth affright

My pathway through the coming night?

Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale

Fill with their threats the shadowy vale,

With Thee my faltering steps to aid,

How can I dare to be afraid?

Shall mouldering page or fading scroll

Outface the charter of the soul?

Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect

The wrong our human hearts reject,

And smite the lips whose shuddering cry

Proclaims a cruel creed a lie?

The wizard's rope we disallow

Was justice once,—is murder now!

Is there a world of blank despair,

And dwells the Omnipresent there?

Does He behold with smile serene

The shows of that unending scene,

Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies,

And, ever dying, never dies?

Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan,

And is that child of wrath his own?

O mortal, wavering in thy trust,

Lift thy pale forehead from the dust!

The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes

Fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies

When the blind heralds of despair

Would bid thee doubt a Father's care,

Look up from earth, and read above

On heaven's blue tablet, GOD IS LOVE!

AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD

THE glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume,

The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom

The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red,

The maples like torches aflame overhead.

But what if the joy of the summer is past,

And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast?

For me dull November is sweeter than May,

For my love is its sunshine,—she meets me to-day!

Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest?

Will the needle swing back from the east or the west?

At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate;

A friend may prove laggard,—love never comes late.

Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet.

Too early! Too early! She could not forget!

When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed,

She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road.

I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines;

I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines;

I haste by the boulder that lies in the field,

Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.

Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood?

Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood?

The minute draws near,—but her watch may go wrong;

My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long?

Why doubt for a moment? More shame if I do!

Why question? Why tremble? Are angels more true?

She would come to the lover who calls her his own

Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone!

I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed.

I looked: lo! my Love stood before me at last.

Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed,

As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road!

IN VITA MINERVA

VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,—

She will not hear thy call;

She steals upon thee unawares,

Or seeks thee not at all.

Soft as the moonbeams when they sought

Endymion's fragrant bower,

She parts the whispering leaves of thought

To show her full-blown flower.

For thee her wooing hour has passed,

The singing birds have flown,

And winter comes with icy blast

To chill thy buds unblown.

Yet, though the woods no longer thrill

As once their arches rung,

Sweet echoes hover round thee still

Of songs thy summer sung.

Live in thy past; await no more

The rush of heaven-sent wings;

Earth still has music left in store

While Memory sighs and sings.

READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS

FIVE STORIES AND A SEQUEL

TO MY OLD READERS

You know "The Teacups," that congenial set

Which round the Teapot you have often met;

The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old,—

Knew as the shepherd of another fold

Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same

As when you called him by a different name.

Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill

Has taught her duly every cup to fill;

"Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm;" "hot as you can pour;"

"No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump more."

Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase

At every turn the teacher's tongue betrays,

Trying so hard to make his speech precise

The captious listener finds it overnice.

Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain,

Nor HE, the owner of the squinting brain,

Which, while its curious fancies we pursue,

Oft makes us question, "Are we crack-brained too?"

Along the board our growing list extends,

As one by one we count our clustering friends,—

The youthful DOCTOR waiting for his share

Of fits and fevers when his crown gets bare;

In strong, dark lines our square-nibbed pen should draw

The lordly presence of the MAN OF LAW;

Our bashful TUTOR claims a humbler place,

A lighter touch, his slender form to trace.

Mark the fair lady he is seated by,—

Some say he is her lover,—some deny,—

Watch them together,—time alone can show

If dead-ripe friendship turns to love or no.

Where in my list of phrases shall I seek

The fitting words of NUMBER FIVE to speak?

Such task demands a readier pen than mine,—

What if I steal the Tutor's Valentine?

Why should I call her gracious, winning, fair?

Why with the loveliest of her sex compare?

Those varied charms have many a Muse inspired,—

At last their worn superlatives have tired;

Wit, beauty, sweetness, each alluring grace,

All these in honeyed verse have found their place;

I need them not,—two little words I find

Which hold them all in happiest form combined;

No more with baffled language will I strive,—

All in one breath I utter: Number Five!

Now count our teaspoons—if you care to learn

How many tinkling cups were served in turn,—

Add all together, you will find them ten,—

Our young MUSICIAN joined us now and then.

Our bright DELILAH you must needs recall,

The comely handmaid, youngest of us all;

Need I remind you how the little maid

Came at a pinch to our Professor's aid,—

Trimmed his long locks with unrelenting shears

And eased his looks of half a score of years?

Sometimes, at table, as you well must know,

The stream of talk will all at once run low,

The air seems smitten with a sudden chill,

The wit grows silent and the gossip still;

This was our poet's chance, the hour of need,

When rhymes and stories we were used to read.

One day a whisper round the teacups stole,—

"No scrap of paper in the silver bowl!"

(Our "poet's corner" may I not expect

My kindly reader still may recollect?)

"What! not a line to keep our souls alive?"

Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five.

"No matter, something we must find to read,—

Find it or make it,—yes, we must indeed!

Now I remember I have seen at times

Some curious stories in a book of rhymes,—

How certain secrets, long in silence sealed,

In after days were guessed at or revealed.

Those stories, doubtless, some of you must know,—

They all were written many a year ago;

But an old story, be it false or true,

Twice told, well told, is twice as good as new;

Wait but three sips and I will go myself,

And fetch the book of verses from its shelf."

No time was lost in finding what she sought,—

Gone but one moment,—lo! the book is brought.

"Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed

That you, this evening, shall be first to read,—

Lucky for us that listen, for in fact

Who reads this poem must know how to act."

Right well she knew that in his greener age

He had a mighty hankering for the stage.

The patient audience had not long to wait;

Pleased with his chance, he smiled and took the bait;

Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers ran,—

He spread the page before him and began.

THE BANKER'S SECRET

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 survey,

And turn a moment from the bright display.

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;

But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few,

Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess 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 degrees

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 well 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.

Oh, 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 gentleman, 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 considered 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 millionnaire;

Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare;

His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-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 Congressman, distinguished 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 overhot,—

Yet see his cheek,—the dull-red burning spot,—

Taste the brown sherry which he does not pass,—

Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his glass!

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 his men as anglers play their trout.

A question drops among the listening crew

And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuctoo.

We're on the Niger, somewhere near its source,—

Not the least hurry, take the river's course

Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo,

Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo,

Thence down to Youri;—stop him if we can,

We can't fare worse,—wake up the Congressman!

The Congressman, 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 diffuse,

And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright,

Pale as the moon and maddening as her light;

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;

With the dry sticks all bonfires are begun;

Bring the first fagot, proser number one

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 him: "Is he quite exact?"

(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 display,

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 encore,

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 harks 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 behind

From all the love his better years have known

Fled like a felon,—ah! but not alone!

The chariot flashes through a lantern's glare,—

Oh 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 frenzied 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 altered 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 memory true,

Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too;

Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line,—

"Gave pleasant dinners; who has got his wine?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The reader paused,—the Teacups knew his ways,—

He, like the rest, was not averse to praise.

Voices and hands united; every one

Joined in approval: "Number Three, well done!"

"Now for the Exile's story; if my wits

Are not at fault, his curious record fits

Neatly as sequel to the tale we've heard;

Not wholly wild the fancy, nor absurd

That this our island hermit well might be

That story's hero, fled from over sea.

Come, Number Seven, we would not have you strain

The fertile powers of that inventive brain.

Read us 'The Exile's Secret'; there's enough

Of dream-like fiction and fantastic stuff

In the strange web of mystery that invests

The lonely isle where sea birds build their nests."

"Lies! naught but lies!" so Number Seven began,—

No harm was known of that secluded man.

He lived alone,—who would n't if he might,

And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight?

A foolish story,—still, I'll do my best,—

The house was real,—don't believe the rest.

How could a ruined dwelling last so long

Without its legends shaped in tale and song?

Who was this man of whom they tell the lies?

Perhaps—why not?—NAPOLEON! in disguise,—

So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop,

Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,—

Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place

Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace.

Such was one story; others used to say,

"No,—not Napoleon,—it was Marshal Ney."

"Shot?" Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead,

But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead.

He wandered round, lived South for many a year,

At last came North and fixed his dwelling here.

Choose which you will of all the tales that pile

Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle.

Who wrote this modest version I suppose

That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows;

Made up of various legends, it would seem,

The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream.

Such tales as this, by simple souls received,

At first are stared at and at last believed;

From threads like this the grave historians try

To weave their webs, and never know they lie.

Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round

The lonely home an exiled stranger found.

THE EXILE'S SECRET

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'ershadowed isle,

Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile,—

A stain of verdure on an azure field,

Set like a jewel in a battered shield?

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 clashing scales,

The storm-beat island spreads its tranquil green,

Calm as an emerald on an angry queen.

So fair when distant should be fairer near;

A boat shall waft us from the outstretched pier.

The breeze blows fresh; we reach the island's edge,

Our shallop rustling through the yielding sedge.

No welcome greets us on the desert isle;

Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no stately pile

Yet these green ridges mark an ancient road;

And to! 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

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 sorrow'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 mysterious 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 inane 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 chebacco-boats,

The frigate, black with thunder-freighted 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 a flash 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;

Rich, so 't was thought, but careful of his store;

Had all he needed, claimed to have no more.

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 corners, 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 unawares;

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 stories 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;

How his laced wallet often would disgorge

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 unknown.

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!

. . . . . . . . . . .

Silence at first, a kind of spell-bound pause;

Then all the Teacups tinkled their applause;

When that was hushed no sound the stillness broke

Till once again the soft-voiced lady spoke:

"The Lover's Secret,—surely that must need

The youngest voice our table holds to read.

Which of our two 'Annexes' shall we choose?

Either were charming, neither will refuse;

But choose we must,—what better can we do

Than take the younger of the youthful two?"

True to the primal instinct of her sex,

"Why, that means me," half whispered each Annex.

"What if it does?" the voiceless question came,

That set those pale New England cheeks aflame;

"Our old-world scholar may have ways to teach

Of Oxford English, Britain's purest speech,—

She shall be youngest,—youngest for to-day,—

Our dates we'll fix hereafter as we may;

All rights reserved,—the words we know so well,

That guard the claims of books which never sell."

The British maiden bowed a pleased assent,

Her two long ringlets swinging as she bent;

The glistening eyes her eager soul looked through

Betrayed her lineage in their Saxon blue.

Backward she flung each too obtrusive curl

And thus began,—the rose-lipped English girl.

THE LOVER'S SECRET

WHAT ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried

To guess his ill, and found herself defied.

The Augur plied his legendary skill;

Useless; the fair young Roman languished still.

His chariot took him every cloudless day

Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way;

They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil,

Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil;

They led him tottering down the steamy path

Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal 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 piercing 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,

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 beating there."

Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails?

"Charmis, the water-doctor from Marseilles."

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 cunning leech,

And muttered "Eros!" in his native 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

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;

Which not in vain, experience must decide.

Were there no damsels willing to attend

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 disinclined,

For reasons better guessed at than defined;

Though all were saints,—at least professed 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;

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, O daughter I said the baffled Greek.

The patient sighed the thanks he could not speak.

Last, Hermia entered; look, that sudden start!

The pallium heaves above his leaping heart;

The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled flame,

Those quivering lips, the secret all proclaim.

The deep disease long throbbing in the breast,

The dread enchantment, all at once confessed!

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, O 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 untold.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Bravo, Annex!" they shouted, every one,—

"Not Mrs. Kemble's self had better done."

"Quite so," she stammered in her awkward way,—

Not just the thing, but something she must say.

The teaspoon chorus tinkled to its close

When from his chair the MAN OF LAW arose,

Called by her voice whose mandate all obeyed,

And took the open volume she displayed.

Tall, stately, strong, his form begins to own

Some slight exuberance in its central zone,—

That comely fulness of the growing girth

Which fifty summers lend the sons of earth.

A smooth, round disk about whose margin stray,

Above the temples, glistening threads of gray;

Strong, deep-cut grooves by toilsome decades wrought

On brow and mouth, the battle-fields of thought;

A voice that lingers in the listener's ear,

Grave, calm, far-reaching, every accent clear,—

(Those tones resistless many a foreman knew

That shaped their verdict ere the twelve withdrew;)

A statesman's forehead, athlete's throat and jaw,

Such the proud semblance of the Man of Law.

His eye just lighted on the printed leaf,

Held as a practised pleader holds his brief.

One whispered softly from behind his cup,

"He does not read,—his book is wrong side up!

He knows the story that it holds by heart,—

So like his own! How well he'll act his part!"

Then all were silent; not a rustling fan

Stirred the deep stillness as the voice began.

THE STATESMAN'S SECRET

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 hemisphere.

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 proclaims.

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 choose 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 seaman's chart,

And crown the pillared glory of the mart,

To count as peers the few supremely wise

Who mark their planet in the angels' eyes,—

If this is life—

What savage man is he

Who strides alone beside the sounding sea?

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 demons 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 plate is there!"

Ah, fatal dream! What warning spectres meet

In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat!

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 topmost round,

Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the ground!"

Illustrious Dupe! Have those majestic 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 supreme?

And soothed by love unbought, thy heart shall own

A nation's homage nobler than its throne!

. . . . . . . . . .

Loud rang the plaudits; with them rose the thought,

"Would he had learned the lesson he has taught!"

Used to the tributes of the noisy crowd,

The stately speaker calmly smiled and bowed;

The fire within a flushing cheek betrayed,

And eyes that burned beneath their penthouse shade.

"The clock strikes ten, the hours are flying fast,—

Now, Number Five, we've kept you till the last!"

What music charms like those caressing tones

Whose magic influence every listener owns,—

Where all the woman finds herself expressed,

And Heaven's divinest effluence breathes confessed?

Such was the breath that wooed our ravished ears,

Sweet as the voice a dreaming vestal hears;

Soft as the murmur of a brooding dove,

It told the mystery of a mother's love.

THE MOTHER'S SECRET

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 Bethlehem'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

On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground;

One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed,—

In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid

The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale

Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale;

Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed,

Told how the shining multitude proclaimed,

"Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed 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 revealed,—

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 mountain 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 shepherd's tale;

In the meek, studious child they only saw

The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law.

Beyond the hills that girt the village green;

Save when at midnight, o'er the starlit sands,

Snatched from the steel of Herod's murdering 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 morning 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

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?"

Oh, weary hour! Oh, aching days that passed

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 captive'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 shining plinth,

Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth.

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, O 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 Temple'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.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hushed was the voice, but still its accents thrilled

The throbbing hearts its lingering sweetness filled.

The simple story which a tear repays

Asks not to share the noisy breath of praise.

A trance-like stillness,—scarce a whisper heard,

No tinkling teaspoon in its saucer stirred;

A deep-drawn sigh that would not be suppressed,

A sob, a lifted kerchief told the rest.

"Come now, Dictator," so the lady spoke,

"You too must fit your shoulder to the yoke;

You'll find there's something, doubtless, if you look,

To serve your purpose,—so, now take the book."

"Ah, my dear lady, you must know full well,

'Story, God bless you, I have none to tell.'

To those five stories which these pages hold

You all have listened,—every one is told.

There's nothing left to make you smile or weep,—

A few grave thoughts may work you off to sleep."

THE SECRET OF THE STARS

Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides

The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides?

Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding 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 wan-eyed watchers sigh,

And Science lifts her still unanswered cry

"Are all these worlds, that speed their circling flight,

Dumb, vacant, soulless,—baubles 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

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 circling round

Fate's iron pillar where they all were bound,

Still in our path a larger curve she finds,

The spiral widening as the chain unwinds

Still sees new beacons crowned with brighter flame

Than the old watch-fires, like, but not the same

No shameless haste shall spot with bandit-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 began

Swing wide the golden portals of the West,

And Eden's secret stand at length confessed!

. . . . . . . . . . .

The reader paused; in truth he thought it time,—

Some threatening signs accused the drowsy rhyme.

The Mistress nodded, the Professor dozed,

The two Annexes sat with eyelids closed,—

Not sleeping,—no! But when one shuts one's eyes,

That one hears better no one, sure, denies.

The Doctor whispered in Delilah's ear,

Or seemed to whisper, for their heads drew near.

Not all the owner's efforts could restrain

The wild vagaries of the squinting brain,—

Last of the listeners Number Five alone

The patient reader still could call his own.

"Teacups, arouse!" 'T was thus the spell I broke;

The drowsy started and the slumberers woke.

"The sleep I promised you have now enjoyed,

Due to your hour of labor well employed.

Swiftly the busy moments have been passed;

This, our first 'Teacups,' must not be our last.

Here, on this spot, now consecrated ground,

The Order of 'The Teacups' let us found!

By winter's fireside and in summer's bower

Still shall it claim its ever-welcome hour,

In distant regions where our feet may roam

The magic teapot find or make a home;

Long may its floods their bright infusion pour,

Till time and teacups both shall be no more!"

VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO

FROM THE "COLLEGIAN," 1830, ILLUSTRATED ANNUALS, ETC.

Nescit vox missa reverti.—Horat. Ars Poetica.

Ab lis qua non adjuvant quam mollissime oportet pedem referre.—

Quintillian, L. VI. C. 4.

These verses have always been printed in my collected poems, and as the best of them may bear a single reading, I allow them to appear, but in a less conspicuous position than the other productions. A chick, before his shell is off his back, is hardly a fair subject for severe criticism. If one has written anything worth preserving, his first efforts may be objects of interest and curiosity. Other young authors may take encouragement from seeing how tame, how feeble, how commonplace were the rudimentary attempts of the half-fledged poet. If the boy or youth had anything in him, there will probably be some sign of it in the midst of his imitative mediocrities and ambitious failures. These "first verses" of mine, written before I was sixteen, have little beyond a common academy boy's ordinary performance. Yet a kindly critic said there was one line which showed a poetical quality:—

"The boiling ocean trembled into calm."

One of these poems—the reader may guess which—won fair words from Thackeray. The Spectre Pig was a wicked suggestion which came into my head after reading Dana's Buccaneer. Nobody seemed to find it out, and I never mentioned it to the venerable poet, who might not have been pleased with the parody. This is enough to say of these unvalued copies of verses.

FIRST VERSES

PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASS., 1824 OR 1825

TRANSLATION FROM THE ENEID, BOOK I.

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'll 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 calm;

With flowing reins the father sped his way

And smiled serene upon rekindled day.

THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS

Written after a general pruning of the trees around Harvard College. 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 following lines.

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 them with her song;

She waved a mutilated arm,

And silence held the listening throng.

"Sweet friends," the gentle nymph began,

"From opening bud to withering leaf,

One common lot has bound us all,

In every change of joy and grief.

"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 halt trained it to a post.

"Go, paint the birch'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!

"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.

THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

THERE was a sound of hurrying feet,

A tramp on echoing stairs,

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

Was 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.

He 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.

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 summer 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.

Oh, 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 slender stem,

In the shade of her velvet diadem;

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 comes 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:—

"Oh, 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;—

"Oh, 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 it 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.

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 the 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;

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 mockery 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!

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?

Oh, 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?

Oh 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,

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,

'Believe 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.

"Oh, 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 recline

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,

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 supplied,

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 conies 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

As 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;

Oh, 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;

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'INCONNUE

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.

I 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!

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 thin eyes,

It seemeth unto me

Ten thousand angels spread their wings

Within those little azure rings.

The lily bath the softest leaf

That ever western breeze bath 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.

O 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;

Oh let it rend thy soul!

Before the gates of fashion

I 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 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.

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!

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.

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;

Oh 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.

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 GENTLEMAN"

IN THE ATHENIEUM 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.

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 'll 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;

Oh 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,—"Oh, what was that, my daughter?"

"'T was 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!

I'll 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 sea-weed 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 of their woe,

And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

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, oh 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, oh 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;

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.

Oh, 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?

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,

Safe 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;

Oh, 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?" 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 and 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!

NOTES.

Page 6. "They're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm." The following epitaph is still to be read on a tall grave-stone standing as yet undisturbed among the transplanted monuments 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 Merch'

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."

Page 62. This broad-browed youth.

Benjamin Robbins Curtis.

Page 62. The stripling smooth of face and slight.

George Tyler Bigelow.

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Table of Contents

THE POETICAL WORKS

CONTENTS:

TO MY READERS

EARLIER POEMS

THE LAST LEAF

THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD

TO AN INSECT

THE DILEMMA

MY AUNT

REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN

DAILY TRIALS

EVENING

THE DORCHESTER GIANT

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY" IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY

THE COMET

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS

THE TREADMILL SONG

THE SEPTEMBER GALE

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

THE LAST READER

POETRY:

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

ADDITIONAL POEMS

THE PILGRIM'S VISION

THE STEAMBOAT

LEXINGTON

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL

A SONG

THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG

DEPARTED DAYS

THE ONLY DAUGHTER

SONG

LINES

NUX POSTCOENATICA

VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY, 1844

A MODEST REQUEST

THE PARTING WORD

A SONG OF OTHER DAYS

SONG

A SENTIMENT

A RHYMED LESSON (URANIA)

AN AFTER-DINNER POEM

MEDICAL POEMS

THE MORNING VISIT

THE TWO ARMIES

THE STETHOSCOPE SONG

EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM

A PORTRAIT

A POEM

A SENTIMENT

RIP VAN WINKLE, M. D.

CANTO FIRST

CANTO SECOND

SONGS IN MANY KEYS

AGNES

PART FIRST

PART SECOND

PART THIRD

PART FOURTH

PART FIFTH

PART SIXTH

THE PLOUGHMAN ANNIVERSARY OF THE BERKSHIRE AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY, OCTOBER 4, 1849

SPRING

THE STUDY

THE BELLS

NON-RESISTANCE

THE MORAL BULLY

THE MIND'S DIET

OUR LIMITATIONS

THE OLD PLAYER

A POEM

TO GOVERNOR SWAIN

TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND

AFTER A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH

AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE

AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS

AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY

AT THE CLOSE OF A COURSE OF LECTURES

THE HUDSON

THE NEW EDEN

SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22, 1855

FAREWELL

FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB

ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER

THE VOICELESS

THE TWO STREAMS

THE PROMISE

AVIS

THE LIVING TEMPLE

AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL

A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE

THE GRAY CHIEF

THE LAST LOOK

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR.

MARTHA

MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE

THE PARTING SONG

FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY ASSOCIATION

FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS

AUGUST 29, 1859

FOR THE FAIR IN AID OF THE FUND TO PROCURE BALL'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON

THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA A NIGHTMARE DREAM BY DAYLIGHT

INTERNATIONAL ODE

A SENTIMENT OFFERED AT THE DINNER TO H. I. H. THE PRINCE NAPOLEON, AT THE REVERE HOUSE, SEPTEMBER 25,1861

BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE

THE POETICAL WORKS

CONTENTS:

POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29

BILL AND JOE

A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE"

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

AN IMPROMPTU

THE OLD MAN DREAMS

REMEMBER—FORGET

OUR INDIAN SUMMER

MARE RUBRUM

THE BOYS

LINES

A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH

J. D. R.

VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION

"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE"

F. W. C.

THE LAST CHARGE

OUR OLDEST FRIEND

SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH

MY ANNUAL

ALL HERE

ONCE MORE

THE OLD CRUISER

ADDED FOR THE ALUMNI MEETING, JUNE 29,

HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING

EVEN-SONG.

THE SMILING LISTENER

OUR SWEET SINGER

H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W.

WHAT I HAVE COME FOR

OUR BANKER

FOR CLASS MEETING

"AD AMICOS"

HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT

THE LAST SURVIVOR

THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS

THE SHADOWS

BENJAMIN PEIRCE

IN THE TWILIGHT

A LOVING-CUP SONG

THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP

THE LYRE OF ANACREON

THE OLD TUNE

THE BROKEN CIRCLE

THE ANGEL-THIEF

AFTER THE CURFEW

POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE

SUN AND SHADOW

MUSA

A PARTING HEALTH

WHAT WE ALL THINK

SPRING HAS COME

PROLOGUE

LATTER-DAY WARNINGS

ALBUM VERSES

A GOOD TIME GOING!

THE LAST BLOSSOM

CONTENTMENT

AESTIVATION

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE

PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING

POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE

HYMN OF TRUST

A SUN-DAY HYMN

THE CROOKED FOOTPATH

IRIS, HER BOOK

ROBINSON OF LEYDEN

ST. ANTHONY THE REFORMER

THE OPENING OF THE PIANO

MIDSUMMER

DE SAUTY

POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE

FANTASIA

AUNT TABITHA

WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE SERIES AUTOCRAT-PROFESSOR-POET

SONGS OF MANY SEASONS

PROGRAMME

IN THE QUIET DAYS

DOROTHY Q.

THE ORGAN-BLOWER

AT THE PANTOMIME

AFTER THE FIRE

A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY

NEARING THE SNOW-LINE

IN WARTIME

TO CANAAN

"THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS."

NEVER OR NOW

ONE COUNTRY

GOD SAVE THE FLAG

HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION

HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO

UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE

FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN

ARMY HYMN

PARTING HYMN "DUNDEE"

THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY

THE SWEET LITTLE MAN

UNION AND LIBERTY

SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL

WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBASSY

AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE EMBASSY

BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ

AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT

AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT

TO H. W. LONGFELLOW

TO CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG

A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS

MEMORIAL VERSES

FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF

FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES

EDWARD EVERETT

SHAKESPEARE

IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT WARE

HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY

POEM

HYMN

HYMN

HYMN

RHYMES OF AN HOUR

ADDRESS

A SEA DIALOGUE

CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC

PHI BETA KAPPA.—CAMBRIDGE, 1867

FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER

A POEM SERVED TO ORDER

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

A HYMN OF PEACE

NOTES.

THE POETICAL WORKS

CONTENTS

BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER

"LUCY"

HYMN

A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE

I.

II.

III.

JOSEPH WARREN, M. D.

OLD CAMBRIDGE

WELCOME TO THE NATIONS

A FAMILIAR LETTER

UNSATISFIED

HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET

AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH"

THE FIRST FAN

TO R. B. H.

THE SHIP OF STATE

A FAMILY RECORD

THE IRON GATE

THE IRON GATE

VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM

MY AVIARY

ON THE THRESHOLD

TO GEORGE PEABODY

AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB

FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

TWO SONNETS: HARVARD

1643 "VERITAS." 1878

THE COMING ERA

IN RESPONSE

FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB

AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

THE SCHOOL-BOY

THE SILENT MELODY

OUR HOME—OUR COUNTRY

POEM

RHYMES OF A LIFE-TIME

BEFORE THE CURFEW

OUR DEAD SINGER

TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

I. AT THE SUMMIT

II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE

A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD

TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE

TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE BLIND

BOSTON TO FLORENCE

AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL

POEM

POST-PRANDIAL

THE FLANEUR

AVE

KING'S CHAPEL

HYMN

HYMN.—THE WORD OF PROMISE

HYMN

ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD

II.

III.

THE GOLDEN FLOWER

HAIL, COLUMBIA!

ADDITIONAL VERSES

POEM

TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN

FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY, BOSTON

FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S IN MEMORY OF A SON OF ARCHDEACON FARRAR

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS

TO THE ELEVEN LADIES

THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET

CACOETHES SCRIBENDI

THE ROSE AND THE FERN

I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU

LA MAISON D'OR

TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE

THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES

TARTARUS

AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD

IN VITA MINERVA

READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS

TO MY OLD READERS

THE BANKER'S SECRET

THE EXILE'S SECRET

THE LOVER'S SECRET

THE STATESMAN'S SECRET

THE MOTHER'S SECRET

THE SECRET OF THE STARS

VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO

FIRST VERSES

TRANSLATION FROM THE ENEID, BOOK I.

THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS

THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

THE TOADSTOOL

THE SPECTRE PIG

TO A CAGED LION

THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE

A ROMAN AQUEDUCT

FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL

LA GRISETTE

OUR YANKEE GIRLS

L'INCONNUE

STANZAS

LINES BY A CLERK

THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE

THE POET'S LOT

TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN"

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN

A NOONTIDE LYRIC

THE HOT SEASON

A PORTRAIT

AN EVENING THOUGHT

THE WASP AND THE HORNET

"QUI VIVE?"

NOTES.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE