University of Virginia Library

SONNETS:

PUBLISHED AT VARIOUS TIMES, UNDER THE TITLE OF “WIDESWARTH SONNETS,”—THE NAME, “WIDESWARTH,” INDICATING THEIR SCOPE, EMBRACING THE EXTREMES OF GRAVE AND GAY.

I.
ON A PICTURE OF LILLIE.

A truthful page is childhood's lovely face,
Whereon sweet Innocence has record made,—
An outward semblance of the young heart's grace,
Where truth, and love, and trust, are all portrayed!
O, blessed childhood! Like the wakening day,
The auroral flush bespeaks thy rising sun,
And spreads a roseate tint about thy way,
And Hope's gay blossoms open one by one.
Sweet Lillie! As I gaze upon thy brow,
I feel my heart expanding into prayer,
That happiness may e'er maintain as now
The truthful seeming it exhibits there;
May after-life no bitterness impart,
But lie, as now, like sunshine round thy heart!

II.
DOMESTIC.

It smiles! Around its dimpling mouth see play
The first glad token of a dawning love,
Like the bright glow of newly-wakening day,
Or some new glory breaking from above.
It smiles! O, rapture! and the mother's heart
Beats with quick pleasure its bright gleam to see,
Springing from dawning consciousness, whose part
In after years her crowning joy may be.
There 's not a bright creation under heaven,
There 's not a pure in heaven or in earth,
There 's not an ecstasy to mortals given,
There 's not a thing of most exalted worth,
Can, in the mother's plenitude of joy,
Excel that first smile of her darling boy!

III.
MUSIC.

I love to sit here in the Music Hall,
And hear the choruses of mighty song
Arise and swell, and pour themselves along,
In fancied tracery upon the wall;
And rapture clothes the melody with form,—
A lofty mountain of stupendous sound,
That bears deep thunder in its breast profound,
And gives them utterance with harmonious storm;
Raising its height far up the fretted arch,
A glittering circlet round its lofty head,
From whence effulgent rays below are shed,
To aid my vision in its upward march.
The chorus stops,—the mountain is a plain,—
The circlet naught but plain gas-lights again.

IV.
PHILOSOPHY.

Let's take the world just as it jogs along,
Nor grumble at the ills which may assail,
But trim our ship to the impending gale,
And watch her well the breakers rude among;
Ne'er growl with envious spite at others' fun
When our horizon bears no gleam of joy,
Or when misfortune with a dark alloy
Causes our cup with sadness to o'er-run.
Rather “Old Uncle Ned's” example see,
Who, when rude Time his teeth away did take,
And he could no more grind the loved corn-cake,
With resignation “let the corn-cake be.”
How can it help bad luck to growl and cry?
Be patient,—for our turn may come by 'n' by.

V.
CHURCH MUSIC.

Ah, dearly do I love the organ's pealing,
With psalm-tune holy or with anthem grand,
The while I drum the measure with my hand,
And gaze devoutly at the frescoed ceiling,
Where modern Angelos have spent their skill,
And mimic niche and pillar make display,
And shadows fling themselves in every way,
In independence of the sun's high will.
I love to hear the voice and organ blending,
And pouring on the air a cloud of sound,
Until, as with a spell, my soul is bound,
And every faculty is heavenward tending.
Bang goes a cricket!—Squalls a child, sonorous,
And earth's harsh discord drowns the heavenly chorus.

VI.
TO SPRING.

O, beauteous Spring! I ope my window wide,
To breathe the sweetness of thy vernal air,
While quick the pulses in their channels glide,
The vestal favors of the spring to share;
I hear the lambs make music on the hills,
I see the violets in the verdant fields,
I catch the perfume that the bland air fills
From myriad blossoms that the season yields.
The shooting vine hangs trembling in the breeze,
And buds luxuriant grace the teeming bough,
The robin sings his song amid the trees,
And Nature pours her notes melodious now.
O, Spring! Thy beauty admiration moves,
But—but—but—Mary, bring my cloak and gloves!

VII.
THE SNOW.

Now white and beautiful creation lies,
Nursing its struggling germs beneath the veil;
On rushing wings the fairy snow-flake flies,
Urged by the breath of the on-hurrying gale.
Now jingling bells thrill wildly on the ear,
As vying coursers dart along the way,
Now rise in chorus tones of blithest cheer,
As beams the moon with calm, untroubled ray.
I bless the snow! How fair its glittering sheen,
How pure and holy is its pearly light!
Clad in its robe, the earth looks like a queen
In the chaste vesture of her bridal night.
'T is passing fair,—yet, hardly fair is that,—
An avalanche, confound it, crushes in my hat!

VIII.
IN STRANGE COMPANY.

'Twas in a 'bus we met, Thanksgiving Day,
And side by side we sat, and we alone!
The driver did n't see us from his throne,
And everybody looked the other way.
But she was chaste as ice, and pure as snow,
And I could vow, though I knew not her name,
Reproach ne'er dared to meddle with her fame,—
I pride myself a virtuous dame to know.
She sweetly whispered me that she felt giddy,
And, with a gentle motion most divine,
She laid the whitest little hand on mine,
And sat up closer, just to keep her steady.
Such confidence as this you'll rarely meet
In earth's unsocial round;—it was a treat!

IX.
HUNGARY.

Poor Hungary! Our hearts are full of her;
Our sympathizing bosoms quick unlock,—
We pay our money out for Kossuth stock,—
And all our warm emotions are astir!
Get up a concert,—swift the tickets go,—
The proceeds are for Hungary oppressed,
The purse respondeth to the ardent breast,
And dollars for Hungarian dolors flow!
But, ah! conviction comes too late to save;
We, not the tickets, 't is, that have been sold,
And rolls upon our mind the comfort cold
That we 've been diddled by a hungry knave!
Alas! poor Hungary, still we'd aid her cause,
However much we may condemn Herr Krausz.

X.
ON A RECENT MARRIAGE.

JENNY LIND'S.

In ancient Bible times,—we read the story
In Numbers, chapter 'leven,—there befell
Among the Jewish tribes a famine sorry,
And all the Hebrews threatened to rebel.
Then Heaven, aweary with their ceaseless cavil,
Raised up a wind,—most marvellous of gales,—
And strewed for miles, on the encircling gravel,
Myriads on myriads of plumpest quails.
The moral of the tale I'll not pursue,
Because disastrous did the sequel prove,—
I merely wish to show the modern Jew
Revealed to us in epicurean love;
The ancient Hebrew feasted on his quail,
The modern Jew secures a Nightingale.

XI.
TRUST NOT APPEARANCES.

“O what a goodly outside falsehood hath!”
A smile may hide a cankering heart below,
A sunken pit lie covered by the snow,
A serpent lurk in the most flowery path.
Let not appearances alone delight you,
A pretty woman oft may scold like fury,
A jack-o'-lantern to a pit allure ye,
A dog with kindly seeming yet may bite you.
I passed a church, and workmen busy were
Repairing and improving its old style;
I stood a moment, and I could but smile
To see a mighty pillar lying there,
Bearing the semblance of the hardest granite,
But proving pine when nearer I did scan it.

XII.
MOONSHINE.

Roll on, bright moon! And if we bid or not,
It would, undoubtedly, as ever shine.
How sweetly on yon bank its beams recline,
A radiant glory hallowing the spot,
Revealing rock and shrub in mystic show;
The tall trees rising steeple-like, and high,
Their forms disclosed against the western sky,
And flowers, moonlight-tinted, 'mid the glow;
Revealing lovers, vowing by that moon
Eternal fealty, everlasting truth,
And hosts of pretty oaths impelled by youth,
Rapidly made, and broken full as soon;
Revealing, too, 'mid country autumn airs,
Young men and roguish maidens “hooking” pears.

XIII.
FRIENDSHIP.

Friendship! Time-honored and romantic name!
Who hath not loved it that hath chanced to sit
Where Forrest roared it to a gaping pit,
When Damon gave himself to feed its flame.
But Damons now-a-days who hap to live
Are men of quite a different sort of mould,
And buying oftener than “getting sold,”
Asking more always than they wish to give.
An all-exacting thing is Friendship now!
Favors men ask and liberties men take,
And things enacted are for Friendship's sake
That wildest Enmity would not allow.
It is no use the sentiment to fetter,—
The fewer friends one has by far the better.

XIV.
TONGUES.

The tongue is small, yet of a mighty force!
The Apostle James a homily once writ,
Wherein this useful member he did hit,—
A married man he must have been, of course.
A shrewish woman, with a wicked tongue,
Will strive to set a neighborhood in blaze,
A venom dwelling in each word she says,
And poison scatter peaceful homes among.
A tattling man,—a man in form alone,—
Will prove a curse where'er he chance to light,
Casting o'er tranquil scenes a mildew blight,
And changing kindred hearts to hostile stone.
Of all the tongues that I have ever known,
That to an ox-cart was the stillest one.

XV.
WIDESWARTH ON HIS PLANTATION.

These are my grounds!—a monarch here I'm standing!
'T is here for me the tiger-lilies bloom,
'T is here the lavender sheds its perfume,
'T is here the dahlia towers with form commanding.
My grape-vines, high o'erarching 'bove my head,
Wave their full clusters in my longing eye,
And promise purple ripeness by and by,
When a few moons their changes shall have sped.
O, 't is a triumph thus to tread the soil,
And feel that none but me herein bears sway!
I envy not the rich, who, day by day,
For dollars' silvery music delve and toil!
See, in yon tuft of balm a honey-bee,—
Its song is music, more than dollars' chink, to me.

XVI.
OPENING THE MUMMY.

Unveil, sweet priestess! waken as thou'rt bidden,
That “the subscribers” may behold thy beauties,
And wonder at thy narrative, if true 't is,
As 't is declared to them by Mr. Gliddon.
What antique fancy in thy look reposes;
Perhaps thou 'st walked with Abram, venerated,
Or with young Joseph chatted, consecrated,
Or in that distant day ta'en tea with Moses.
Great Mummy! wonderingly we thee behold,
But thy old flesh is hard as nether stone,
And for a wife we 'd choose a softer one,
For such as thou would make one's blood run cold.
Surely, old lass, you 're safe from Time's aggression,
His ancient teeth on you can't make impression.

XVII.
LEVITY.

Just think, one moment, what a sight 'twould be
To witness sober manhood mad at play,
Trundling a hoop along the public way,
Or pitching cents, and screaming in his glee!
Or on the frog-pond sailing tiny boats,
Or on the common flying airy kites,
Or waging mimic wars in snow-ball fights,
Yelling defiance with shrill treble notes.
What to imagine! Yet did ye ne'er hear
The big church organ, consecrate to psalm,
Whistling profaner tunes without a qualm,
That sound to holy ears confounded queer,—
Dashing off wildly with a diddle-diddle,
Just like some little inconsiderate fiddle?

XVIII.
HOPE.

Through young eyes look we out on life's highway,—
The sun doth gladden it, and cooling streams
Murmur like pleasant voices in our dreams,
And pleasure beckons on with aspect gay;
Bright joys peep out from every covert lying,
To lure the unwary to remote retreats,
Holding up promises of rarer sweets,
Which as pursued evade the grasp by flying!
Bright hues soon vanish and the sky grows dark,
The path uncertain cheats the weary eye,
Realities beset we may not fly,
And hope 's diminished to the merest spark,—
Melteth away, like Whipple's “views,” and leaves
Joy's phantoms only, o'er which memory grieves.

XIX.
LOVE.

Lift up your hand, and tell the angry tide
Thus far to go, nor dare to break its bound;
Fix ye a limit for the scope of pride,
Or bind it, humbled, to the very ground;
Check young ambition in its fiery course,
When the prized goal is just within its reach;
Silence the tempest, with its accent hoarse,
And bellowing winds a mild submission teach;—
These ye may do, and everything beside,
In human province, mother earth above,
Excepting one that rule has e'er defied,—
The heart's own choosing in concerns of love!
The heart will have its way, whate'er betide it,
As he and you and I and thousands more have tried it.

XX.
FAME.

What's Fame? I ask—is it to live in story,
That after days may eulogize thy deed,
Blazing upon a scroll with faded glory,
Bragging of grandeur long since gone to seed?
Is it to raise a church, or found a college,
That, ages hence, when builders' works decay,
From deep in earth, long hid from human knowledge,
Thy name once more turn up to light of day?
Is it to fix thy mark where centuries' surges
Wage tireless wars on its undying line,
When from their rimy billows it emerges
And sparkles with a brilliancy divine?
I climbed a hill for fame, the way I “come it,”
And writ my name in granite on its summit.

XXI.
A QUESTION ANSWERED.

Ha! a red banner from the Old South swinging!
What means this flaming “meteor of war”?
Have outward troubles or intestine jar
Good men, but zealous, been to conflict bringing?
Or is't in memory of those olden days,
When horses occupied the cushioned pew,
And contemplatively their oats did chew,
Right on the spot where Deacon Snodgrass prays?
The red flag hoisted on these sacred walls!
Banner piratical, why swing ye there,
With scarlet levity, on holy air?
On Christian heads thy lurid shadow falls.
I have it,—Thompson sells some pews to-day,
And that 's his flag that flaunts above my way.

XXII.
FAITH.

If you have faith, so holy writings say,
You may command the sturdy sycamine tree
To leave its quarters for a voyage to sea,
And straightway will the obedient thing obey.
Just so it is when ill, like mountain summit,
Shall rise before us in the road of life,
Let us press on with faith, and brave the strife,—
With this we'll rise above and overcome it.
Ne'er doubting, like the preaching fool of yore,
Who told his wondering, simple-moulded flock
That, had he faith, a neighboring mass of rock
The weakest one could hurl a rod from shore;
But, scanning it again, began to doubt it,
And muttered, “Faith, though, I don't know about it.”

XXIII.
RIDING.

Why should the rich despise the poor?—ay, true,
Why should they, to be sure? And why should I,
While in my coach, look down on passers-by
With scornful arrogance, as some folks do?
I will not; Jehu shall have ample sway,
I'll let him take up all who choose to ride;
My coach has room enough on every side,
And he shall fill it, please he, day by day.
Come in, my crippled friend, we'll find you place;
And you, stout lady, slow with fat and age,
Here you the ills of gout or corns may 'suage;
Come in, sweet damsel with the blooming face;
Come in; what 's this? What, hold your hand for pay?
A “bus,” i' faith! thus grandeur's dreams decay!

XXIV.
DEVOTION.

Devotion's that where, reverently bending,
The full heart holily itself outpours,
Forgetting all, save that which it adores,
Spirit and scene in one sweet union blending;
Not to glance sideways with a truant eye,—
While holy words with fluent promptness slip,
With ready eloquence, from off the lip,—
Watching each form or thing that flitteth by.
I knew a deacon once, a holy man,
Who highest sat at church among the saints,
And freest judged by all of human taints,
Who 'gainst all follies laid perpetual ban,—
Forgetful quite of sermon, psalm and prayers,
Watching two younglings courting on the stairs.

XXV.
SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP.

'T is a sad lesson mortals have to learn,
That hearts will change and turn to very stone,
And where the blessed light of friendship shone
The fell and deadly fires of hate may burn.
O, blessed Friendship! genius of our youth,
That, all unselfish, pledged itself in need,
I think on thee, and my sad heart doth bleed
To find thee fallen from thy primal truth.
O, bitter is it to pass coldly by
The friend of early boyhood's happy days,
Whose heart has grown estranged in selfish ways,
With unsaluting tongue and heedless eye!
But yet one thought occurs the woe to cease:
Perpetual silence is perpetual peace.

XXVI.
PHILANTHROPY.

Sweet bird, there warbling on the waving bough,
My finger doth upon the trigger rest,
And soon must cease to beat that gentle breast
That is so affluent with music now;
I do detest to kill thee,—manhood shrinks
That late could shoot a man in Mexico,
And unrelenting cause his blood to flow,—
Tears dim his vision, and the weapon sinks.
And yet so plump thou art, my darling bird,
So wickedly provoking me to shoot,
That, maugre all my qualms, I think I'll do 't,
And kill remorse that lately in me stirred.
I must,—but, hang the bird! he's flown away,
It was n't safe for him round here to stay.

XXVII.
LIPS.

I saw a rose-bud 'twixt a maiden's lips,—
Borrowing new beauties from its ruby throne,
And adding them to graces of its own,—
A bud the like the wild bee oftenest sips.
The sweetness of her lips did seem to lend
A better fragrance than the bud possessed,
And, as it rested on its station blest,
'T was joy to see their mutual beauties blend.
O, lips and roses! Once upon a time,—
A kissing party 't was,—I “forfeit” paid,
And kissed a somewhat antiquated maid,
Whom Providence had spared to mourn her prime.
Her breath made serious that playful jest,
Exhaled o'er gums not “Araby's the blest.”

XXVIII.
CHILDREN.

Heavens, the racket! keep those children quiet!
The house is trembling all from sill to rafter
Beneath the tumult of their noise and laughter,
While carrying on their small domestic riot.
“Better to have ten rogues than e'er a fool,”
Some one has said, in philosophic way,
And that 's precisely what I often say
To soothe me for their disregard of rule.
“Troublesome comforts” at the best are they,—
But, death-stilled be the music of that tongue
Whose note the loudest through the house hath rung,
And what a cloud has fallen on our day!
Traverse the world, we'll find, where'er we roam,
Few spots more cheerless than a childless home.

XXIX.
CALIFORNIA.

Good gracious! how the mind gloats o'er the stories,
Glittering and clinking with their weight of gold,
And never tiring, though so often told,
The last recital giving added glories!
We read them in the Mercantile and other
Veritable prints, and must believe 'em,
And eyes and ears are open to receive 'em,
And every doubt that they are true we smother!
But pile the metal on some mount Pacific,
Till we can catch its shining even here,
My bark, for one, shall never thenceward steer,
The faithful promise howsoe'er prolific.
The stories may be true, as we are told,
But there a beefsteak's worth its weight in gold.

XXX.
THE DANCE.

The lamps in yonder hall glow grandly bright,
And music 'liveneth the midnight air,
And white-robed forms, than seraphs' scarce less fair,
Whirl fast and graceful 'twixt me and the light.
There youth and beauty crowd upon my sight,
As through my half-closed curtains forth I gaze,
To watch the sportive thread the giddy maze,
And smile in sympathy with their delight.
Delicious hour!—enchantment rules the night;
The outside world is herein all forgot,—
Here is their world, and pleasure all its lot,
And images of ill have taken flight.
Took flight?—ah, no,—they only wait outside,
To join them in the coach, as home they ride.

XXXI.
REVENGE.

Search the long catalogue of wicked things
That appertain to man's degraded state,
In vain you'll search for one more fell than Hate,
Or one that darker trouble with it brings.
With thoughts of malice rankling in his breast,
The hater walks abroad a thing accursed,
Consuming with the passion he has nursed,
And prematurely banished from all rest.
His victim to a grave his hate may bring,
Or ingenuity some scheme impart,
Furthering the promptings of a fiendish heart,
With constant woes a brother's heart to wring.
God marks the hater, and with just decree
Metes his reward in earthly infamy.

XXXII.
CHILDISH LOVE IRRESPECTIVE.

'T is beautiful to see the childish heart
Turning with fervor and a grateful force
Towards the one who was its being's source—
A stream that ne'er will from its course depart.
I recollect, on one hot summer day,
On Boston Common, where the trees had made,
In the still air, a cool, luxuriant shade,
I saw a drunkard lying by the ways;
His head was pillowed on a small child's knee,—
A gentle girl, who, with most touching care,
Fanned his hot temples as he slumbered there
Beneath the shadow of that spreading tree.
'T was like same pleading angel 'mid our sin
Watching, with hope, the lost soul back to win.

XXXIII.
THE OLD MAN TO HIS WIFE.

Thou art not beautiful, as men would speak;
There 's care upon thy brow, and in thy hair
A silvery thread I see gleam here and there,
And health's bright hue has faded from thy cheek;
But, O, the soul that looks from thy dark eye,
And rests on me with all its olden light,
Undimmed by time, with fond affection bright,
With love long tried and true, which cannot die;
Thy smile yet beaming with old kindness fraught,—
Beaming like sunshine from the heart within,
Which care, nor toil, nor poverty, nor sin,
Can dim, or turn its trustfulness to naught,—
These, O, my Nannie, draw my heart to thee!
I own thy chain, nor wish that I were free.

XXXIV.
DANCING.

Dancing some call “the poetry of motion,”
Where gay danseuses nightly toil and spin,
And Prudery, blind, or, seeing, chides the sin,—
But dancing such as this suits not my notion.
We see sweet childhood on the festal floor,
And twining arms link little heart to heart,
Where, banished all severities of Art,
Celestial Innocence her light doth pour;
Or at a husking or a sleighing 'bout,
When quantity of quality takes lead;
Or in a festal hour, long time decreed,
Men dance the new year in, the old one out.
These I do like, and I have laughed while gazing
To see a pair of thick boots in the maze amazing.

XXXV.
A SUMMER NIGHT.

'Neath the mild beauty of a summer night,
I leave my chamber to enjoy the air,—
To feel its eddies circling in my hair,
And feel it kiss my brow in wild delight.
The starry gems bestud the concave high;
O, blessed stars! on you I fix my eye,
And long for your bright spheres to take my flight.
Beneath o'erlacing elms, shut out from sight,
I stray, my head reclined upon my breast,—
My thoughts away, away amid the blest!
The world forgot, in my abstraction, quite!
Hark! there 's a sound of earth, a note of bliss,—
Of most ecstatic smack it is, I wist,—
Borne to my ear from darkness, comes a lover's kiss!

XXXVI.
UTILITY.

Man may win glory in the deadly wars;
In books may write his never-dying name;
In deep philosophy may find a fame,
And see its record blazoned in the stars;
In commerce may excel, and, on the main,
A thousand keels rush swift to do his will;
May with warm eloquence make tumult still,
Or wake the stillness to a storm again;
May with sweet melody attune his lyre,
Till the rapt listener bows, forgetting all
Within the power of its enchanting thrall;
May station gain, and compass each desire,—
Attain the acme of earth's greatness, maybe;
But what of all?—say, can he tend a baby?

XXXVII.
BE JOLLY.

Be jolly! drop the “minor key” of sorrow,
Nor 'plain of troubles that may never rise;
Make happy every moment as it flies,
And to its portion leave the coming morrow.
Long, dismal faces, and a dismal mood,
Across our pathway should they chance to run,
As envious clouds do muffle up the sun,
Drown all our joy as with a sombre flood.
O, for the heart to smile at every fate,
Laugh like the old Greek in the antique story,
Or, like Mark Tapley, still 'mid trouble glory,
And feel within its shadows more elate!
Give me a man that relishes a laugh,—
I'd trust him sooner than a gloomy one by half.

XXXVIII.
THE CHURCH IN A ROW.

Let dogs and other “varmint” take delight
In tearing, growling, worrying and biting,—
But when good Christian people take to fighting,
The heathen round about them laugh outright.
Fancy a temple with God's spirit fled;
Brother meets brother on the Sabbath day,
And furious saints belligerent fists do sway,
Or, with the fixins, break each other's head.
Curses ascend the roof, the air is thick
With violence, and holy spite, and malice,
And wrath is measured in a brimming chalice,
And Decency stands back, and Faith turns sick;
The Devil triumphs where Love should prevail,
And wags delightedly his forkéd tail.

XXXIX.
SUNSET.

The Sun is sinking in the radiant West,
And over woods, and fields, and glassy streams,
Are thrown the glories of his ruddy beams,
Which earth with richer loveliness invest;
And softening influences mark the hour,—
The cattle meekly take their march for home,
And low responsive to the sounds which come
Proclaiming gentle Evening's sovereign power.
Down 'mid the trees the golden sunshine floats,
And the sad fife-bird pours his sweetest lay,
The robin sings his vespers on the spray,
And myriad insects trill their pensive notes.
The Sun sinks slowly to his watery bed,
And draws a cap of cloud about his weary head.

XL.
RESOLUTION.

“I feared they'd catch me, and I ran away!”
Said a small girl, with basket on her arm;
And, as if fearful of some threatened harm,
She watched her mother's eye of angry gray.
The hag her child had with the basket sent
Into a neighbor's turnip-garden near,
To steal; her little heart did quake with fear,
And her bright eyes dropped tears, as on she went.
“I feared they'd catch me!” “Fool!” was the reply.
The old one from its peg her bonnet took,
Then snatched the basket with a sullen look,
While quick resolve shone plainly in her eye:
“The wicked flee when none pursue, you elf,—
The just are bold as lions,—I will go myself!”

XLI.
HOPE DEFERRED.

I marked an organ-grinder in the street,
And how he watched each window, low and high,
With most inquiring and artistic eye,
To catch the wish to hear his music sweet,
Retailed, like cider, from the barrel dark
That from his neck depended by a string,
The hearing which abroad its rapture fling
Would kill all wish again to hear the lark!
And still he walked,—no call from low or high,—
Jeannot from his Jeannette no moment fled,
And all unburied lay Old Uncle Ned,
And poor Susannah did n't deign to cry!
Hope's pedestal that organ-man might grace,
With expectation written on his face.

XLII.
MODERN NEWSPAPER PORTRAITS.

Illustrious men, of high renown and worth!
The tongue your greatness may not dare abuse;
Ye stand as beacon-lights in our small earth,
To praise whom enmity itself must choose!
Members of mighty councils in the state,
Magnates of wealth, preachers of note and fame,
Heroes who honors share for service great,
Savans who 'mongst the stars have writ their name;
Maidens of note, and dames of high degree,—
You all are shining on the printed page,
But vexed I feel, as ye I daily see,
At the vile scandal of this limning age,
That mars the lovely, makes good men a scoff,
In the “damnation of their taking off.”

XLIII.
COUNTRY VISITS.

Delightful is it, when the burning sun
Pours down in fervid beams that rival torrid,
Frying the reeking sweat from the hot forehead,
From city dust and city heat to run
Where the bland air may cool the fevered blood;
Where kindred beckons us with open arms,
And Nature, smiling with ten thousand charms,
Woos us from grove and meadow, flower and flood.
But tarry not until that time doth come,
When stranger's china disappears the board,
And old familiar crockery is restored,—
The wish implied that we should be at home,—
When too familiar are the household tunes,
And iron take the place of silver spoons.

XLIV.
THE OCEAN.

O Ocean! One poor relative of song
Poureth his votive tribute on thy shrine!
Stupendous water-works! Whose source divine
Needeth no “act” thy durance to prolong.
An 'umble spirit his who bows to thee
And freely yields himself to thy stern rule,—
Though not as straight as those he drew at school,
And just the merest particle too free.
It needed not the might thou here hast shown
To bring me down,—a very worm at best!—
Mine's no unyielding stomach to contest
Power so omnipotent as is thine own!
No pious Jew, himself from sin to free,
E'er gave heave-offering true as this I heave to thee.

XLV.
WHAT I WOULD.

My boy! I'd have thee ever true as now,
The guilt of falsehood ne'er thy soul to mar,
And honor's light, an ever-beaming star,
To shed its radiance on thy open brow.
I'd have thee brave, and ever for the right
Be ready with thine aid to interpose,
To shield the weak, beset around with foes,
And raise the fallen by thy virtuous might.
I'd ask not riches for thee here below,
For Care's perplexity doth with them rest,
And love of wealth drives from the human breast
Sweet virtues that the humble only know.
I'd have thee happy in the heart's rich store,
Which, blessing others, glads itself the more.

XLVI.
SUMMER.

My heart springs glad to greet thee, joyous June!
The flowers glow brighter 'neath thy gentle tread,
And on the genial air their perfume shed,
While bird, and bee, and brooklet, all in tune,
Pour a grand symphony of love for thee!
The trees are vocal, and their wide arms swing
At breath of Zephyrus, whose airy wing
Disportive flutters in the sunshine free.
O June! My spirit fain would soar away
To woody nooks, shut in from garish light,
Where it might sing, from early morn till night,
To thee, bright season, sweetest roundelay.
We greet thee, June, a truly welcome comer;
We own that Spring is some, but thou art Summer.

XLVII.
SUNRISE.

Uprising from the trees, the gleaming gold
Of sunrise bursts upon my eager eyes,
And, as its glories to my gaze unfold,
My soul is rapt with wonder and surprise!
The green trees glisten in the radiance bright,
The birds their matin songs delighted pour,
The distant hill-tops catch the enkindled light,
My heart's devotion strengthens with the hour.
O Nature! may my soul still find in thee
A satisfaction sweet as now I know,
When, from the bonds of pressing care set free,
My bosom burns with admiration's glow.
I feel, while gazing here on Nature's face,
With Mr. Squeers, that “Natur' is a case.”

XLVIII.
PATIENCE.

Patience, rare virtue, let me sing thy praises.
When gouty pains the human frame are racking,
How wretched is his plight who thee is lacking!
With thee more kindly rest the encircling baizes.
Patience!—The good dame sinks who has it not!
Her house in riot,—“children everywhere,”—
Their voices loud disturb the quiet air,
And rude feet trample every guarded spot.
Patience! 't is needed in life's every round,
And they are happiest who have it most,—
Better by far than wealth is this to boast,—
It spreadeth sunshine wheresoe'er 't is found;
Patience,—but, O! it brightest shines in life
Soothing the tempest of a scolding wife.

XLIX.
JENNY LIND.

And do we hear thee sing? Or is't some vision
With melody celestial round us ringing?
Or some enchanting tones from realms elysian
That waiting zephyrs unto us are bringing,
And all around us like a spell are flinging,
Blinding our reason with a mystic thrall,
Until forgot are the swift moments winging,
And present bliss becomes the all and all?
The soul, inspired, from the dull earth upspringing,
Dwells in a newer, holier atmosphere,
Where tuneful censers are with music swinging
Their cloud of sweets to feed the ravished ear.
The dream is o'er,—the error is forgiven,—
In Jenny's notes are less of earth than heaven.

L.
THE WOODS.

Ye brave old pines! I court your cooling shade;
The circling air amid your branches sweeps,
And, checked by you, the day-star's fervor sleeps,
Or here his hot artillery is stayed;
I from my covert view him undismayed,
And snap my fingers in his burning face,
As he peeps in where arching trees enlace,
And ask myself the question,—“Who 's afraid?”
Ah, many times have I thus onward strayed,
In meditation lost, or sportive bent,
Where every moment such enjoyment lent,
All other scenes were dull by contrast made.
My lad! your fancy now a trick has played,
You 're lost, as sure as fate, by the erratic jade.

LI.
TO MY FRIEND PETER.

I say, you rattling, hair-brained, funny Peter,
Well do you shake us with your many follies,
Driving forth from us all our melancholies,
With jovial exorcisms in prose and metre,—
We love you heartily, you funny creatur'!
How could we find our way along without you,
With all your oddities so thick about you,
And rare fun beaming out from every featur'?
None in the fields of humor are completer
Than you, my ever-ready pungent Snooks,—
Though more a puncheon in your rotund looks;
True wit ne'er scintillates from any neater.
Salt keeps our meat and metre all the sweeter;
Attic 's the salt, and you are all salt, Peter.

LII.
WEBSTER VS. WIDESWARTH.

A shout goes up, from patriotic throats,
For Webster, mightiest of Columbia's sons;
The nation's flag from every topmast floats,
And war's harsh thunder bellows from the guns!
'T is meet ye honor with a grand applause
The men who make their mark upon the times,
Whether they move the world by potent laws,
Or make men better by the growth of rhymes.
The laurel wreath by each could well be worn,
And I'm content, for one, to bear my part,—
Content, too, that the meed be likewise borne
By all who merit it, with all my heart.
But Webster takes the whole, nor leaves for me
One single leaf from the undying tree.

LIII.
SHAKSPEARE ILLUSTRATED.

“To what base uses may we come at last!”
Ah! Shakspeare, what a truth thou here hast said!
There 's many an one whose lot seemed hopeful cast
That in gray ignominy bows his head.
The youth that “goes it with a perfect rush”
And claims alliance with the “upper ten,”
May find his fortune, like an eggshell, crush,
And make him mingle in with common men.
I 've seen a maiden with a haughty air,
That contumacious scorn did ever speak,
Glad in the servants' hall a place to share,
And wash the dishes for so much per week!
It daily grieves my very soul to see
A barber's wig profane the bust of Ellen Tree!