THE EARLY POEMS OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES [an electronic edition]

LYRICS.

LYRICS.

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 care-worn 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!

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 free-born 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!

LA GRISETTE.

AH Clemence! when I saw thee last Trip down the Rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had past, I said, "We meet again," — I dreamed not in that idle glance Thy latest image came, And only left to memory's trance A shadow and a name.

The few strange words my lips had taught Thy timid voice to speak, Their gentler signs, which often brought Fresh roses to thy cheek, The trailing of thy long loose hair Bent o'er my couch of pain, All, all returned, more sweet, more fair; O 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 Père-la-Chaise!

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 hill-sides 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!

A SOUVENIR.

YES, lady! I can ne'er forget, That once in other years we met; Thy memory may perchance recall A festal eve, a rose-wreathed hall, Its tapers' blaze, its mirrors' glance, Its melting song, its ringing dance; — Why, in thy dream of virgin joy, Shouldst thou recall a pallid boy?

Thine eye had other forms to seek, Why rest upon his bashful cheek? With other tones thy heart was stirred, Why waste on him a gentle word? We parted, lady, — all night long Thine ear to thrill with dance and song, — And I — to weep that I was born A thing thou scarce wouldst deign to scorn.

And, lady! now that years have past, My bark has reached the shore at last;

The gales that filled her ocean wing Have chilled and shrunk thy hasty spring, And eye to eye, and brow to brow, I stand before thy presence now; — Thy lip is smoothed, thy voice is sweet, Thy warm hand offered when we meet.

Nay, lady! 'tis not now for me To droop the lid or bend the knee. I seek thee — oh, thou dost not shun: I speak, — thou listenest like a nun; I ask thy smile, — thy lip uncurls, Too liberal of its flashing pearls; Thy tears, — thy lashes sink again, — My Hebe turns to Magdalen!

O changing youth! that evening hour Look down on ours, — the bud — the flower; Thine faded in its virgin soil, And mine was nursed in tears and toil; Thy leaves were withering, one by one, While mine were opening to the sun; — Which now can meet the cold and storm, With freshest leaf and hardiest form?

Ay, lady! that once haughty glance Still wanders through the glittering dance, And asks in vain from others' pride, The charity thine own denied; And as thy fickle lips could learn To smile and praise, — that used to spurn, So the last offering on thy shrine Shall be this flattering lay of mine!

"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!

THE WASP AND THE HORNET.

THE two proud sisters of the sea, In glory and in doom! — Well may the eternal waters be Their broad, unsculptured tomb! The wind that rings along the wave, The clear, unshadowed sun, Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave, Whose last green wreath is won!

No stranger-hand their banners furled, No victor's shout they heard; Unseen, above them ocean curled, Save by his own pale bird; The gnashing billows heaved and fell; Wild shrieked the midnight gale; Far, far beneath the morning swell Were pennon, spar, and sail.

The land of Freedom! Sea and shore Are guarded now, as when

Her ebbing waves to victory bore Fair barks and gallant men; 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!

FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL.

SWEET Mary, I have never breathed The love it were in vain to name; Though round my heart a serpent wreathed, I smiled, or strove to smile, the same.

Once more the pulse of Nature glows With faster throb and fresher fire, While music round her pathway flows Like echoes from a hidden lyre.

And is there none with me to share The glories of the earth and sky? The eagle through the pathless air Is followed by one burning eye.

Ah, no! the cradled flowers may wake, Again may flow the frozen sea, From every cloud a star may break, — There comes no second Spring to me.

Go, — ere the painted toys of youth Are crushed beneath the tread of years; Ere visions have been chilled to truth, And hopes are washed away in tears.

Go, — for I will not bid thee weep, — Too soon my sorrows will be thine, And evening's troubled air shall sweep The incense from the broken shrine.

If Heaven can hear the dying tone Of chords that soon will cease to thrill, The prayer that Heaven has heard alone, May bless thee when those chords are still!

STANZAS.

STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone Is far, far sweeter unto me, Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, Or breathe along the sea; But, lady, when thy voice I greet, Not heavenly music seems so sweet.

I look upon the fair blue skies, And naught but empty air I see; But when I turn me to thine eyes, It seemeth unto me Ten thousand angels spread their wings Within those little azure rings.

The lily hath the softest leaf That ever western breeze hath fanned, But thou shalt have the tender flower, So I may take thy hand; That little hand to me doth yield More joy than all the broidered field.

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.

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.

How few that love us have we found! How wide the world that girds them round! Like mountain streams we meet and part, Each living in the other's heart, Our course unknown, our hope to be Yet mingled in the distant sea.

But Ocean coils and heaves in vain, Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain; And love and hope do but obey Some cold, capricious planet's ray, Which lights and leads the tide it charms, To Death's dark caves and icy arms.

Alas! one narrow line is drawn, That links our sunset with our dawn; In mist and shade life's morning rose, And clouds are round it at its close; But ah! no twilight beam ascends To whisper where that evening ends.

Oh! in the hour when I shall feel Those shadows round my senses steal, When gentle eyes are weeping o'er The clay that feels their tears no more, Then let thy spirit with me be, Or some sweet angel, likest thee!

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!

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 REVERY."

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, — 'twas perhaps Because she stood too near;" She turned away, and as she turned, I saw her wipe a tear.

THE DYING SENECA.

HE died not as the martyr dies Wrapped in his living shroud of flame; He fell not as the warrior falls, Gasping upon the field of fame; A gentler passage to the grave, The murderer's softened fury gave.

Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles Had tracked the purple demon's path, And yet another victim lived To fill the fiery scroll of wrath; Could not imperial vengeance spare His furrowed brow and silver hair?

The field was sown with noble blood, The harvest reaped in burning tears, When, rolling up its crimson flood, Broke the long-gathering tide of years; His diadem was rent away, And beggars trampled on his clay.

None wept, — none pitied; — they who knelt At morning by the despot's throne, At evening dashed the laurelled bust, And spurned the wreaths themselves had strewn; The shout of triumph echoed wide, The self-stung reptile writhed and died!

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.

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!

THE LAST PROPHECY OF CASSANDRA.

THE sun is fading in the skies And evening shades are gathering fast; Fair city, ere that sun shall rise, Thy night hath come, — thy day is past!

Ye know not, — but the hour is nigh; Ye will not heed the warning breath; No vision strikes your clouded eye, To break the sleep that wakes in death.

Go, age, and let thy withered cheek Be wet once more with freezing tears; And bid thy trembling sorrow speak, In accents of departed years.

Go, child, and pour thy sinless prayer Before the everlasting throne; And He who sits in glory there, May stoop to hear thy silver tone.

Go, warrior, in thy glittering steel, And bow thee at the altar's side; And bid thy frowning gods reveal The doom their mystic counsels hide.

Go, maiden, in thy flowing veil, And bare thy brow, and bend thy knee; When the last hopes of mercy fail, Thy God may yet remember thee.

Go, as thou didst in happier hours, And lay thine incense on the shrine; And greener leaves, and fairer flowers, Around the sacred image twine.

I saw them rise, —the buried dead, — From marble tomb and grassy mound; I heard the spirits' printless tread, And voices not of earthly sound.

I looked upon the quivering stream, And its cold wave was bright with flame; And wild, as from a fearful dream, The wasted forms of battle came.

Ye will not hear — ye will not know, — Ye scorn the maniac's idle song; Ye care not! but the voice of woe Shall thunder loud, and echo long.

Blood shall be in your marble halls, And spears shall glance, and fires shall glow; Ruin shall sit upon your walls, But ye shall lie in death below.

Ay, none shall live to hear the storm Around their blackened pillars sweep; To shudder at the reptile's form, Or scare the wild bird from her sleep.

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!

TO MY COMPANIONS.

MINE ancient Chair! thy wide-embracing arms Have clasped around me even from a boy; Hadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by, Thine were a tale of sorrow and of joy, Of fevered hopes and ill-foreboding fears, And smile unseen, and unrecorded tears.

And thou, my Table! though unwearied Time Hath set his signet on thine altered brow Still can I see thee in thy spotless prime, And in my memory thou art living now; Soon must thou slumber with forgotten things, The peasant's ashes and the dust of kings.

Thou melancholy Mug! thy sober brown Hath something pensive in its evening hue, Not like the things that please the tasteless clown, With gaudy streaks of orange and of blue;

And I must love thee, for thou art mine own, Pressed by my lip, and pressed by mine alone.

My broken Mirror! faithless, yet beloved, Thou who canst smile, and smile alike on all, Oft do I leave thee, oft again return, I scorn the siren, but obey the call; I hate thy falsehood, while I fear thy truth, But most I love thee, flattering friend of youth.

Primeval Carpet! every well-worn thread Has slowly parted with its virgin dye; I saw thee fade beneath the ceaseless tread, Fainter and fainter in mine anxious eye; So flies the color from the brightest flower, And heaven's own rainbow lives but for an hour.

I love you all! there radiates from our own A soul that lives in every shape we see; There is a voice, to other ears unknown, Like echoed music answering to its key. The dungeoned captive hath a tale to tell, Of every insect in his lonely cell; And these poor frailties have a simple tone, That breathes in accents sweet to me alone.

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said, — Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago, — That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, 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.

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 crackling pile!

TO AN INSECT.

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist, Thou pretty Katydid! Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — Old gentlefolks are they, — Thou say'st an undisputed thing In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid! I know it by the trill That quivers through thy piercing notes, So petulant and shrill, I think there is a knot of you Beneath the hollow tree, — A knot of spinster Katydids, — Do Katydids drink tea?

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! forgive This erring lip its smiles, —

Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles; He sent her to a stylish school; 'Twas 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.

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 livelong 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 MEETING OF THE DRYADS.

* 1.1

IT was not many centuries since, When, gathered on the moonlit green, Beneath the Tree of Liberty, A ring of weeping sprites were 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 hast 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 ever julep that he drinks, May gout, and bile, and headache be; And when he strives to calm his pain, May colic mingle with his tea.

"May nightshade cluster round his path, And thistles shoot, and brambles cling; May blistering ivy scorch his veins, And dogwood burn, and nettles sting.

"On him may never shadow fall, When fever racks his throbbing brow, And his last shilling buy a rope To hang him on my highest bough!"

She spoke; — the morning's herald beam Sprang from the bosom of the sea, And every mangled sprite returned In sadness to her wounded tree.* 1.2

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 aisles, 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 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; —

"O 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; —

"O Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig, That thou shouldst weep and wail? Come, bear thee like a butcher's child, And thou shalt have his tail!"

It was the butcher's daughter then, So slender and so fair, That sobbed as if her heart would break, And tore her yellow hair;

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone, — Fast fell the tear-drops big; — "Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas! The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!"

Then did her wicked father's lips Make merry with her woe, And call her many a naughty name, Because she whimpered so.

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.

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.

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!

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, or 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 urns and cherubs o'er thee!

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.

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; 'Tis 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 not 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 GENTLEMAN."

IN THE ATHEN�UM GALLERY.

IT may be so, — perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be, — In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee.

Those eyes, — among thine elder friends Perhaps they pass for blue; — No matter, — if a man can see, What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth, — that fissure in thy face By something like a chin, — May be a very useful place To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook, — A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament, — Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain; She wept, — and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again.

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.

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY."

IN THE ATHEN�UM GALLERY.

WELL, Miss, I wonder where you live, I wonder what's your name, I wonder how you came to be In such a stylish frame; Perhaps you were a favorite child, Perhaps an only one; Perhaps your friends were not aware You had your portrait done!

Yet you must be a harmless soul; I cannot think that Sin Would care to throw his loaded dice, With such a stake to win; I cannot think you would provoke The poet's wicked pen, Or make young women bite their lips, Or ruin fine young men.

Pray, did you ever hear, my love, Of boys that go about, Who, for a very trifling sum Will snip one's picture out? I'm not averse to red and white, But all things have their place, I think a profile cut in black Would suit your style of face!

I love sweet features; I will own That I should like myself To see my portrait on a wall, Or bust upon a shelf; But nature sometimes makes one up Of such sad odds and ends, It really might be quite as well Hushed up among one's friends!

THE COMET.

THE 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! O 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!

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 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?" "'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water;" "And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — "Now bring me my harpoon! 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.

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 filthy 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 shan'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 isn'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.

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, And how the shingles rattled!

And oaks were scattered on the ground As if the Titans battled; 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! O 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 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 Jolys' 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.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Written after a general pruning of the trees around Harvard College.
• * 1.2

  A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the works of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I was as much surprised as amused to meet with it some time after writing the preceding lines.