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Other Poems.
APPLE-BLOSSOMS.
Underneath an apple-tree
Sat a maiden and her lover;
And the thoughts within her he
Yearned, in silence, to discover.
Round them danced the sunbeams bright,
Green the grass-lawn stretched before them;
While the apple-blossoms white
Hung in rich profusion o'er them.
Sat a maiden and her lover;
And the thoughts within her he
Yearned, in silence, to discover.
Round them danced the sunbeams bright,
Green the grass-lawn stretched before them;
While the apple-blossoms white
Hung in rich profusion o'er them.
Naught within her eyes he read
That would tell her mind unto him;
Though their light, he after said,
Quivered swiftly through and through him;
Till at last his heart burst free
From the prayer with which 'twas laden,
And he said, “When wilt thou be
Mine for evermore, fair maiden?”
That would tell her mind unto him;
Though their light, he after said,
Quivered swiftly through and through him;
Till at last his heart burst free
From the prayer with which 'twas laden,
And he said, “When wilt thou be
Mine for evermore, fair maiden?”
“When,” said she, “the breeze of May
With white flakes our heads shall cover,
I will be thy brideling gay—
Thou shalt be my husband-lover.”
“How,” said he, in sorrow bowed,
“Can I hope such hopeful weather?
Breeze of May and Winter's cloud
Do not often fly together.”
With white flakes our heads shall cover,
I will be thy brideling gay—
Thou shalt be my husband-lover.”
“How,” said he, in sorrow bowed,
“Can I hope such hopeful weather?
Breeze of May and Winter's cloud
Do not often fly together.”
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Quickly as the words he said,
From the west a wind came sighing,
And on each uncovered head
Sent the apple-blossoms flying;
“‘Flakes of white!’ thou'rt mine,” said he,
“Sooner than thy wish or knowing!”
“Nay, I heard the breeze,” quoth she,
“When in yonder forest blowing.”
From the west a wind came sighing,
And on each uncovered head
Sent the apple-blossoms flying;
“‘Flakes of white!’ thou'rt mine,” said he,
“Sooner than thy wish or knowing!”
“Nay, I heard the breeze,” quoth she,
“When in yonder forest blowing.”
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APPLES GROWING.
Underneath an apple-tree
Sat a dame of comely seeming,
With her work upon her knee,
And her great eyes idly dreaming.
O'er the harvest-acres bright,
Came her husband's din of reaping;
Near to her, an infant wight
Through the tangled grass was creeping.
Sat a dame of comely seeming,
With her work upon her knee,
And her great eyes idly dreaming.
O'er the harvest-acres bright,
Came her husband's din of reaping;
Near to her, an infant wight
Through the tangled grass was creeping.
On the branches long and high,
And the great green apples growing,
Rested she her wandering eye,
With a retrospective knowing.
“This,” she said, “the shelter is,
Where, when gay and raven-headed,
I consented to be his,
And our willing hearts were wedded.
And the great green apples growing,
Rested she her wandering eye,
With a retrospective knowing.
“This,” she said, “the shelter is,
Where, when gay and raven-headed,
I consented to be his,
And our willing hearts were wedded.
“Laughing words and peals of mirth,
Long are changed to grave endeavor;
Sorrow's winds have swept to earth
Many a blossomed hope forever.
Thunder-heads have hovered o'er—
Storms my path have chilled and shaded;
Of the bloom my gay youth bore,
Some has fruited—more has faded.”
Long are changed to grave endeavor;
Sorrow's winds have swept to earth
Many a blossomed hope forever.
Thunder-heads have hovered o'er—
Storms my path have chilled and shaded;
Of the bloom my gay youth bore,
Some has fruited—more has faded.”
Quickly, and amid her sighs,
Through the grass her baby wrestled,
Smiled on her its father's eyes,
And unto her bosom nestled.
And with sudden, joyous glee,
Half the wife's and half the mother's,
“Still the best is left,” said she:
“I have learned to live for others.”
Through the grass her baby wrestled,
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And unto her bosom nestled.
And with sudden, joyous glee,
Half the wife's and half the mother's,
“Still the best is left,” said she:
“I have learned to live for others.”
121
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
Where grows the Christmas tree—
The green, deep-rooted Christmas tree?
By what brave toil, in what rich soil,
Can spring the blooming Christmas tree?
Is it from prairies broad and deep,
Where future harvests softly sleep,
And flocks of acres, far and free,
Lie level as a waveless sea?
Or is it where a breeze-skein twines
Between the lofty-plumaged pines?
Or where sweet, stealthy Languor roves
Among the Southland orange groves?
Or blooms it best 'mid city homes,
With Wealth's unnumbered spires and domes?
Or is it where, through changeful day,
The mountain shadows creep and play,
And swift a gleaming sun flood rides
Along the tall cliff's dappled sides?
High grows the Christmas tree,
The sweet, love-planted Christmas tree—
Where'er extends the hand of friends;
Wherever heart-caressings be.
The green, deep-rooted Christmas tree?
By what brave toil, in what rich soil,
Can spring the blooming Christmas tree?
Is it from prairies broad and deep,
Where future harvests softly sleep,
And flocks of acres, far and free,
Lie level as a waveless sea?
Or is it where a breeze-skein twines
Between the lofty-plumaged pines?
Or where sweet, stealthy Languor roves
Among the Southland orange groves?
Or blooms it best 'mid city homes,
With Wealth's unnumbered spires and domes?
Or is it where, through changeful day,
The mountain shadows creep and play,
And swift a gleaming sun flood rides
Along the tall cliff's dappled sides?
High grows the Christmas tree,
The sweet, love-planted Christmas tree—
Where'er extends the hand of friends;
Wherever heart-caressings be.
What bears the Christmas tree—
The bright, rich-fruited Christmas tree?
What gather they, expectant-gay,
Who throng around the Christmas tree?
Leaves picked by love-instructed art
From off the branches of the heart;
Fruits culled from every tree and vine
Where zephyrs fly and sunbeams shine.
Whate'er can brighten to our gaze
The trembling dawn of childhood days;
Whate'er can feed more clear and high
The flame of youth's expectant eye;
Whate'er can make more richly good
The blood of man or womanhood,
Or bid old age look smiling round
At gems of earth-joy newly found;
Whate'er can say, “While strength endures,
My life has love and help for yours.”
Rich glows the Christmas tree,
The heart-protected Christmas tree—
With tokens dear that bring more near
God's earth-lent love to you and me.
The bright, rich-fruited Christmas tree?
What gather they, expectant-gay,
Who throng around the Christmas tree?
Leaves picked by love-instructed art
From off the branches of the heart;
Fruits culled from every tree and vine
Where zephyrs fly and sunbeams shine.
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The trembling dawn of childhood days;
Whate'er can feed more clear and high
The flame of youth's expectant eye;
Whate'er can make more richly good
The blood of man or womanhood,
Or bid old age look smiling round
At gems of earth-joy newly found;
Whate'er can say, “While strength endures,
My life has love and help for yours.”
Rich glows the Christmas tree,
The heart-protected Christmas tree—
With tokens dear that bring more near
God's earth-lent love to you and me.
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AUTUMN DAYS.
Yellow, mellow, ripened days,
Sheltered in a golden coating;
O'er the dreamy, listless haze,
White and dainty cloudlets floating;
Winking at the blushing trees,
And the sombre, furrowed fallow;
Smiling at the airy ease
Of the southward-flying swallow.
Sweet and smiling are thy ways,
Beauteous, golden, Autumn days!
Sheltered in a golden coating;
O'er the dreamy, listless haze,
White and dainty cloudlets floating;
Winking at the blushing trees,
And the sombre, furrowed fallow;
Smiling at the airy ease
Of the southward-flying swallow.
Sweet and smiling are thy ways,
Beauteous, golden, Autumn days!
Shivering, quivering, tearful days,
Fretfully and sadly weeping;
Dreading still, with anxious gaze,
Icy fetters round thee creeping;
O'er the cheerless, withered plain,
Woefully and hoarsely calling;
Pelting hail and drenching rain
On thy scanty vestments falling.
Sad and mournful are thy ways,
Grieving, wailing, Autumn days!
Fretfully and sadly weeping;
Dreading still, with anxious gaze,
Icy fetters round thee creeping;
O'er the cheerless, withered plain,
Woefully and hoarsely calling;
Pelting hail and drenching rain
On thy scanty vestments falling.
Sad and mournful are thy ways,
Grieving, wailing, Autumn days!
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THE FADING FLOWER.
There is a chillness in the air—
A coldness in the smile of day;
And e'en the sunbeam's crimson glare
Seems shaded with a tinge of gray.
A coldness in the smile of day;
And e'en the sunbeam's crimson glare
Seems shaded with a tinge of gray.
Weary of journeys to and fro,
The sun low creeps adown the sky;
And on the shivering earth below,
The long, cold shadows grimly lie.
The sun low creeps adown the sky;
And on the shivering earth below,
The long, cold shadows grimly lie.
But there will fall a deeper shade,
More chilling than the Autumn's breath:
There is a flower that yet must fade,
And yield its sweetness up to death.
More chilling than the Autumn's breath:
There is a flower that yet must fade,
And yield its sweetness up to death.
She sits upon the window-seat,
Musing in mournful silence there,
While on her brow the sunbeams meet,
And dally with her golden hair.
Musing in mournful silence there,
While on her brow the sunbeams meet,
And dally with her golden hair.
She gazes on the sea of light
That overflows the western skies,
Till her great soul seems plumed for flight
From out the window of her eyes.
That overflows the western skies,
Till her great soul seems plumed for flight
From out the window of her eyes.
Hopes unfulfilled have vexed her breast,
Sad smiles have checked the rising sigh;
Until her weary heart confessed,
Reluctantly, that she must die.
Sad smiles have checked the rising sigh;
Until her weary heart confessed,
Reluctantly, that she must die.
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And she has thought of all the ties—
The golden ties—that bind her here;
Of all that she has learned to prize,
Of all that she has counted dear;
The golden ties—that bind her here;
Of all that she has learned to prize,
Of all that she has counted dear;
The joys of body, heart, and mind,
The pleasures that she loves so well;
The grasp of friendship, warm and kind,
And love's delicious, hallowed spell.
The pleasures that she loves so well;
The grasp of friendship, warm and kind,
And love's delicious, hallowed spell.
And she has wept, that she must lie
Beneath the snow-wreaths, drifted deep,
With no fond mother standing nigh,
To watch her in her silent sleep.
Beneath the snow-wreaths, drifted deep,
With no fond mother standing nigh,
To watch her in her silent sleep.
And she has prayed, if it might be
Within the reach of human skill,
And not averse to Heaven, that she
Might live a little longer still.
Within the reach of human skill,
And not averse to Heaven, that she
Might live a little longer still.
But earthly hope is gone; and now
Comes in its place a brighter beam,
Leaving upon her snowy brow
The impress of a heavenly dream:
Comes in its place a brighter beam,
Leaving upon her snowy brow
The impress of a heavenly dream:
That she, when her frail body yields,
And fades away to mortal eyes,
Shall burst through Heaven's eternal fields,
And bloom again—in Paradise.
And fades away to mortal eyes,
Shall burst through Heaven's eternal fields,
And bloom again—in Paradise.
128
PICNIC SAM.
You youngsters who haven't heard of Picnic Sam,
Just gather up around here where I am,
And listen sharp while memory wanders through him,
And brings out what he seemed like when I knew him.
He lived in one of those high-stretched affairs
Called tenements—up any amount of stairs;
His room there, when the tired streets he forsook,
Was just what room he crowded in and took.
Though he “lived high,” he never had the gout,
And for the most part took his dinners out.
Breakfast and supper were not in his way;
His motto always was, One meal per day;
Or rather, maybe, when you squarely met it,
One meal per day, providing I can get it.
His garments—well, you've stood and looked, perhaps,
At those plump, little, beaming, made-up chaps,
With nobby coats, and smiling, painted faces,
The clothing dealer in his window places
(To make meat children envious, I suppose);
Well, Sam wasn't dressed at all like one of those.
Raiment like his no lively lad enjoys;
It had been cut for several different boys,
And, taking garments as they come and go,
He had about one suit—or nearly so.
Still, dry-goods are of life a small-sized part:
A bad coat often hides a first-class heart.
His face suggested, to the casual sight,
A bull-dog's when he's waiting for a fight;
And on it might be traced full many a streak,
As though it were not laundered once a week.
And yet his eyes were handsome, for a fact
(That is, of course, the one that was not blacked,
For he had fighting—more or less—to do);
But his well eye looked rather good and true.
Just gather up around here where I am,
And listen sharp while memory wanders through him,
And brings out what he seemed like when I knew him.
He lived in one of those high-stretched affairs
Called tenements—up any amount of stairs;
His room there, when the tired streets he forsook,
Was just what room he crowded in and took.
Though he “lived high,” he never had the gout,
And for the most part took his dinners out.
Breakfast and supper were not in his way;
His motto always was, One meal per day;
Or rather, maybe, when you squarely met it,
One meal per day, providing I can get it.
His garments—well, you've stood and looked, perhaps,
At those plump, little, beaming, made-up chaps,
With nobby coats, and smiling, painted faces,
The clothing dealer in his window places
(To make meat children envious, I suppose);
Well, Sam wasn't dressed at all like one of those.
Raiment like his no lively lad enjoys;
It had been cut for several different boys,
And, taking garments as they come and go,
He had about one suit—or nearly so.
Still, dry-goods are of life a small-sized part:
A bad coat often hides a first-class heart.
His face suggested, to the casual sight,
A bull-dog's when he's waiting for a fight;
And on it might be traced full many a streak,
As though it were not laundered once a week.
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(That is, of course, the one that was not blacked,
For he had fighting—more or less—to do);
But his well eye looked rather good and true.
You youngsters, gather round here where I am—
I'll tell you why they called him Picnic Sam.
This young home-heathen had, by day and night,
A genuine first-class picnic appetite;
And, with a zeal good children stood in fear of,
Attended every picnic he could hear of.
When Sunday-schools were going to have “a spread,”
He'd always join, a week or two ahead;
And though no “verses” he had ever learned,
Tried to look serious like and deep concerned,
And (if some good boy he was sitting near)
Would answer every question, loud and clear.
'Twas strange, when near the time of feasting came,
How sure a school was to get Samuel's name.
“Why,” said a teacher, rather prone to scoff,
“He'll smell a picnic full a fortnight off.”
'Twas strange, in different schools he ravaged round in,
What various kinds of classes he'd be found in.
Three times or more, he gravely tried to pass
As member of an old folks' Bible class;
And once appeared (rough brick-bat among pearls)
In a small, timid infant class of girls!
But, in whatever company he came,
His appetite stood by him all the same.
No picnic near, in weather foul or pleasant,
But Sam and stomach managed to be present.
And when, with innocent, unconscious air,
He placed himself at table, firm and square,
With one eye partly closed, the other looking
Intently at the different styles of cooking;
And when, with savage-gleaming knife and fork,
He brought himself down seriously to work,
And marched through every dish in conquering glory,
And ravaged all the adjacent territory,
Making the table for some distance round
Look like a fiercely hard-fought battle-ground,
A smile upon his placid face would fall,
As if life wasn't a failure, after all.
I'll tell you why they called him Picnic Sam.
This young home-heathen had, by day and night,
A genuine first-class picnic appetite;
And, with a zeal good children stood in fear of,
Attended every picnic he could hear of.
When Sunday-schools were going to have “a spread,”
He'd always join, a week or two ahead;
And though no “verses” he had ever learned,
Tried to look serious like and deep concerned,
And (if some good boy he was sitting near)
Would answer every question, loud and clear.
'Twas strange, when near the time of feasting came,
How sure a school was to get Samuel's name.
“Why,” said a teacher, rather prone to scoff,
“He'll smell a picnic full a fortnight off.”
'Twas strange, in different schools he ravaged round in,
What various kinds of classes he'd be found in.
Three times or more, he gravely tried to pass
As member of an old folks' Bible class;
And once appeared (rough brick-bat among pearls)
In a small, timid infant class of girls!
But, in whatever company he came,
His appetite stood by him all the same.
No picnic near, in weather foul or pleasant,
But Sam and stomach managed to be present.
And when, with innocent, unconscious air,
He placed himself at table, firm and square,
With one eye partly closed, the other looking
Intently at the different styles of cooking;
And when, with savage-gleaming knife and fork,
He brought himself down seriously to work,
And marched through every dish in conquering glory,
And ravaged all the adjacent territory,
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Look like a fiercely hard-fought battle-ground,
A smile upon his placid face would fall,
As if life wasn't a failure, after all.
But when the exciting dinner-hour was gone
Sam always seemed uncalled for and alone;
Felt snubbed and frozen and made quiet game of—
Slights that he didn't even know the name of,
But which he sensed as keenly (do not doubt it)
As if some foe had told him all about it.
He always felt by that vague feeling haunted
That hangs around folks when they are not wanted.
Because a boy is greedy, dull, and droll,
It need not follow that he hasn't a soul;
Because his stomach craves more than its part,
It's no sign he was born without a heart;
Though ragged, poor, or coarse, or impolite,
He may resent a wrong or feel a slight.
'Tis dangerous work, this making game of folks,
Thinking, perhaps, they do not heed your jokes.
Don't fool yourself; for, ten to one, they know it,
And feel it worse in laboring not to show it.
Sam always seemed uncalled for and alone;
Felt snubbed and frozen and made quiet game of—
Slights that he didn't even know the name of,
But which he sensed as keenly (do not doubt it)
As if some foe had told him all about it.
He always felt by that vague feeling haunted
That hangs around folks when they are not wanted.
Because a boy is greedy, dull, and droll,
It need not follow that he hasn't a soul;
Because his stomach craves more than its part,
It's no sign he was born without a heart;
Though ragged, poor, or coarse, or impolite,
He may resent a wrong or feel a slight.
'Tis dangerous work, this making game of folks,
Thinking, perhaps, they do not heed your jokes.
Don't fool yourself; for, ten to one, they know it,
And feel it worse in laboring not to show it.
Well, on one day particularly fine,
Sam felt himself invited to help dine
With (in a small grove, shady, fresh, and cool)
A recently discovered Sunday-school:
Which, when he'd joined, he'd muttered, “This'll pass;
It's a swell crowd; the board'll be first-class.”
And so it was; and for an hour or more
Sam slew things as he never did before,
Wondering, with a gastronomic smile,
Where all these victuals 'd been all this long while;
And made the teachers feel a great surprise
That they'd so underrated their supplies;
And in his stomach could not but confess
That life to-day was one good square success.
Then, after dinner, feeling cute and smart,
He tried to make a little social start,
And frisk and frolic round, like any other,
And be accepted as a boy and brother.
But all the children shrank, with scarce-hid loathing,
From a strange lad in such imperfect clothing;
And soon Sam's face a misty sadness wore,
As if to say, “I b'lieve I'm snubbed once more.”
He tried to put them under obligations
With street accomplishments and fascinations:
In turning somersaults and hand-springs led,
Whistled and sang, danced, stood upon his head;
Even tried a friendly sparring match; till taken
Right in the act, misunderstood, and shaken
(By the strong mother of the lad he battled),
Till the provisions in him fairly rattled.
But whatsoe'er he did, discreet or bold,
It seemed to drive him farther in the cold.
Sam felt himself invited to help dine
With (in a small grove, shady, fresh, and cool)
A recently discovered Sunday-school:
Which, when he'd joined, he'd muttered, “This'll pass;
It's a swell crowd; the board'll be first-class.”
And so it was; and for an hour or more
Sam slew things as he never did before,
Wondering, with a gastronomic smile,
Where all these victuals 'd been all this long while;
And made the teachers feel a great surprise
That they'd so underrated their supplies;
And in his stomach could not but confess
That life to-day was one good square success.
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He tried to make a little social start,
And frisk and frolic round, like any other,
And be accepted as a boy and brother.
But all the children shrank, with scarce-hid loathing,
From a strange lad in such imperfect clothing;
And soon Sam's face a misty sadness wore,
As if to say, “I b'lieve I'm snubbed once more.”
He tried to put them under obligations
With street accomplishments and fascinations:
In turning somersaults and hand-springs led,
Whistled and sang, danced, stood upon his head;
Even tried a friendly sparring match; till taken
Right in the act, misunderstood, and shaken
(By the strong mother of the lad he battled),
Till the provisions in him fairly rattled.
But whatsoe'er he did, discreet or bold,
It seemed to drive him farther in the cold.
The grove was near a river; on whose brink
Samuel sat down, with lots of time to think,
And watch some light boats swiftly past him go,
With happy children flitting to and fro,
Content to see him safe and dry on land.
And he thought, “No, I ain't much in demand.”
Samuel sat down, with lots of time to think,
And watch some light boats swiftly past him go,
With happy children flitting to and fro,
Content to see him safe and dry on land.
And he thought, “No, I ain't much in demand.”
Just then a trim young miss came tripping by,
With golden hair, and more than handsome eye;
And Sam remarked, his face full of glad creases,
“That's the smart girl that scooped 'em speakin' pieces;
I wonder if she learned hers like a song,
Or made the speech up as she went along?
She came out first, though last upon the track,
But spoke so long it held the dinner back;
Still, what she said was sweet an' soothin' rather,
'Bout how ‘We all are children of one Father.’
If that's so, she's half-sister unto me—
At least I think I'll speak to her, and see.”
Then, thinking pleasantly to clear the way,
He shouted, “Miss, this 'ere's a pleasant day.”
But she flounced on, more haughty than before;
And Sam remarked, “I b'lieve I'm snubbed once more.”
With golden hair, and more than handsome eye;
And Sam remarked, his face full of glad creases,
“That's the smart girl that scooped 'em speakin' pieces;
I wonder if she learned hers like a song,
Or made the speech up as she went along?
She came out first, though last upon the track,
But spoke so long it held the dinner back;
Still, what she said was sweet an' soothin' rather,
'Bout how ‘We all are children of one Father.’
If that's so, she's half-sister unto me—
At least I think I'll speak to her, and see.”
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He shouted, “Miss, this 'ere's a pleasant day.”
But she flounced on, more haughty than before;
And Sam remarked, “I b'lieve I'm snubbed once more.”
While, roughly sad, the boy sat musing yet,
He heard a shout, “Help! help! our boat's upset!”
And, following with his eyes the fear-edged scream,
Sam saw three children struggling in the stream.
And two were rescued; one went 'neath a wave;
The waters closed above her like a grave.
She sank, apparently to rise no more,
While frantic crowds ran up and down the shore,
And, 'mid the turmoil, each one did his best,
Shouting first-class instructions to the rest.
“It's the swell girl,” thought Sam, “that's made this row;
I wonder how she likes the weather now?
I'd save her—if it wasn't too much bother—
‘Good deeds for evil—children of one Father.’
I rather think she's gone down there to stay;
She can't be yelled up, if they try all day.
Wonder, if I should save her, 'twould be bold?
I've dove for pennies—s'pose I dive for gold?”
Then, throwing off his coat—what there was of it—
He plunged into the water, rose above it,
Plunged in again, and came once more to air,
Grasping a pretty golden tress of hair,
And a fine, stylish, shapely girl attached,
With pale, sweet face, and lips that with it matched.
He held her up till strong arms came from shore;
And soon she raised her eyes, and lived once more.
He heard a shout, “Help! help! our boat's upset!”
And, following with his eyes the fear-edged scream,
Sam saw three children struggling in the stream.
And two were rescued; one went 'neath a wave;
The waters closed above her like a grave.
She sank, apparently to rise no more,
While frantic crowds ran up and down the shore,
And, 'mid the turmoil, each one did his best,
Shouting first-class instructions to the rest.
“It's the swell girl,” thought Sam, “that's made this row;
I wonder how she likes the weather now?
I'd save her—if it wasn't too much bother—
‘Good deeds for evil—children of one Father.’
I rather think she's gone down there to stay;
She can't be yelled up, if they try all day.
Wonder, if I should save her, 'twould be bold?
I've dove for pennies—s'pose I dive for gold?”
Then, throwing off his coat—what there was of it—
He plunged into the water, rose above it,
Plunged in again, and came once more to air,
Grasping a pretty golden tress of hair,
And a fine, stylish, shapely girl attached,
With pale, sweet face, and lips that with it matched.
He held her up till strong arms came from shore;
And soon she raised her eyes, and lived once more.
But Sam, poor boy, exhausted, choked, and beaten
With the prodigious dinner he had eaten,
Strangled and sank beneath the river's brim;
And no one seemed to care to dive for him.
Indeed, 'twas hard from the cold waves to win him,
With such a large part of the picnic in him;
And when at last he came out, with “a haul,”
The school had one dead pupil, after all.
With the prodigious dinner he had eaten,
Strangled and sank beneath the river's brim;
And no one seemed to care to dive for him.
Indeed, 'twas hard from the cold waves to win him,
With such a large part of the picnic in him;
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The school had one dead pupil, after all.
Poor drenched, dead hero!—in his tattered dress,
Sam now was a society success.
They crowded round the urchin, as he lay,
And talked about him in a mournful way;
And from the teachers efforts did not lack
To resurrect and bring their scholar back;
They thronged about him, kept from him the air,
Pounded him, pumped him, shook him up with care;
But useless was their toil, do all they could:
Sam and his dinner had gone on for good.
Sam now was a society success.
They crowded round the urchin, as he lay,
And talked about him in a mournful way;
And from the teachers efforts did not lack
To resurrect and bring their scholar back;
They thronged about him, kept from him the air,
Pounded him, pumped him, shook him up with care;
But useless was their toil, do all they could:
Sam and his dinner had gone on for good.
Nothing too nice that could be done and said
For this poor fellow—now that he was dead.
His casket was the finest and the best;
He went to his own funeral richly dressed.
They rigged him out in very pretty trim;
A rich, first-class procession followed him,
That reached the farthest distance up and down
Of any often witnessed in that town;
And all the children, shedding tears half hid,
Threw evergreens upon Sam's coffin-lid.
For this poor fellow—now that he was dead.
His casket was the finest and the best;
He went to his own funeral richly dressed.
They rigged him out in very pretty trim;
A rich, first-class procession followed him,
That reached the farthest distance up and down
Of any often witnessed in that town;
And all the children, shedding tears half hid,
Threw evergreens upon Sam's coffin-lid.
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You youngsters tempted scornfully to smile,
If a poor boy doesn't come up to your style,
Or shrink from him as though perhaps he'll bite you,
Because he has some points that don't delight you,
Or think, because your “set” can do without him,
There's nothing much desirable about him,
Just recollect that squeamishness is sham,
And drop a kindly thought on Picnic Sam.
If a poor boy doesn't come up to your style,
Or shrink from him as though perhaps he'll bite you,
Because he has some points that don't delight you,
Or think, because your “set” can do without him,
There's nothing much desirable about him,
Just recollect that squeamishness is sham,
And drop a kindly thought on Picnic Sam.
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ONE AND TWO.
I.
If you to me be cold,Or I be false to you,
The world will go on, I think,
Just as it used to do;
The clouds will flirt with the moon,
The sun will kiss the sea,
The wind to the trees will whisper,
And laugh at you and me;
But the sun will not shine so bright,
The clouds will not seem so white,
To one, as they will to two;
So I think you had better be kind,
And I had best be true,
And let the old love go on,
Just as it used to do.
II.
If the whole of a page be read,If a book be finished through,
Still the world may read on, I think,
Just as it used to do;
For other lovers will con
The pages that we have passed,
And the treacherous gold of the binding
Will glitter unto the last.
But lids have a lonely look,
And one may not read the book—
It opens only to two;
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And I had best be true,
And let the reading go on,
Just as it used to do.
III.
If we who have sailed togetherFlit out of each other's view,
The world will sail on, I think,
Just as it used to do;
And we may reckon by stars
That flash from different skies,
And another of love's pirates
May capture my lost prize;
But ships long time together
Can better the tempest weather
Than any other two;
So I think you had better be kind,
And I had best be true,
That we together may sail,
Just as we used to do.
139
DEATH-DOOMED.
They're taking me to the gallows, mother—they mean to hang me high;
They're going to gather round me there, and watch me till I die;
All earthly joy has vanished now, and gone each mortal hope,—
They'll draw a cap across my eyes, and round my neck a rope;
The crazy mob will shout and groan—the priest will read a prayer,
The drop will fall beneath my feet and leave me in the air.
They think I murdered Allen Bayne; for so the Judge has said,
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
They're going to gather round me there, and watch me till I die;
All earthly joy has vanished now, and gone each mortal hope,—
They'll draw a cap across my eyes, and round my neck a rope;
The crazy mob will shout and groan—the priest will read a prayer,
The drop will fall beneath my feet and leave me in the air.
They think I murdered Allen Bayne; for so the Judge has said,
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
The grass that grows in yonder meadow, the lambs that skip and play,
The pebbled brook behind the orchard, that laughs upon its way,
The flowers that bloom in the dear old garden, the birds that sing and fly,
Are clear and pure of human blood, and, mother, so am I!
By father's grave on yonder hill—his name without a stain—
I ne'er had malice in my heart, or murdered Allen Bayne!
But twelve good men have found me guilty, for so the Judge has said,
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
The pebbled brook behind the orchard, that laughs upon its way,
The flowers that bloom in the dear old garden, the birds that sing and fly,
Are clear and pure of human blood, and, mother, so am I!
By father's grave on yonder hill—his name without a stain—
I ne'er had malice in my heart, or murdered Allen Bayne!
But twelve good men have found me guilty, for so the Judge has said,
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
The air is fresh and bracing, mother; the sun shines bright and high;
It is a pleasant day to live—a gloomy one to die!
It is a bright and glorious day the joys of earth to grasp—
It is a sad and wretched one to strangle, choke, and gasp!
But let them damp my lofty spirit, or cow me if they can!
They send me like a rogue to death—I'll meet it like a man;
For I never murdered Allen Bayne! but so the Judge has said,
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
It is a pleasant day to live—a gloomy one to die!
It is a bright and glorious day the joys of earth to grasp—
It is a sad and wretched one to strangle, choke, and gasp!
But let them damp my lofty spirit, or cow me if they can!
They send me like a rogue to death—I'll meet it like a man;
For I never murdered Allen Bayne! but so the Judge has said,
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
Poor little sister 'Bell will weep, and kiss me as I lie;
But kiss her twice and thrice for me, and tell her not to cry;
Tell her to weave a bright, gay garland, and crown me as of yore,
Then plant a lily upon my grave, and think of me no more.
And tell that maiden whose love I sought, that I was faithful yet;
But I must lie in a felon's grave, and she had best forget.
My memory is stained forever; for so the Judge has said,
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
But kiss her twice and thrice for me, and tell her not to cry;
Tell her to weave a bright, gay garland, and crown me as of yore,
Then plant a lily upon my grave, and think of me no more.
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But I must lie in a felon's grave, and she had best forget.
My memory is stained forever; for so the Judge has said,
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
Lay me not down by my father's side; for once, I mind, he said
No child that stained his spotless name should share his mortal bed.
Old friends would look beyond his grave, to my dishonored one,
And hide the virtues of the sire behind the recreant son.
And I can fancy, if there my corse its fettered limbs should lay,
His frowning skull and crumbling bones would shrink from me away,
But I swear to God I'm innocent, and never blood have shed!
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
No child that stained his spotless name should share his mortal bed.
Old friends would look beyond his grave, to my dishonored one,
And hide the virtues of the sire behind the recreant son.
And I can fancy, if there my corse its fettered limbs should lay,
His frowning skull and crumbling bones would shrink from me away,
But I swear to God I'm innocent, and never blood have shed!
And they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
Lay me in my coffin, mother, as you've sometimes seen me rest:
One of my arms beneath my head, the other on my breast.
Place my Bible upon my heart—nay, mother, do not weep—
And kiss me as in happier days you kissed me when asleep.
And for the rest—for form or rite—but little do I reck;
But cover up that curséd stain—the black mark on my neck!
And pray to God for his great mercy on my devoted head;
For they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
[OMITTED]
One of my arms beneath my head, the other on my breast.
Place my Bible upon my heart—nay, mother, do not weep—
And kiss me as in happier days you kissed me when asleep.
And for the rest—for form or rite—but little do I reck;
But cover up that curséd stain—the black mark on my neck!
And pray to God for his great mercy on my devoted head;
For they'll hang me to the gallows, mother—hang me till I'm dead!
But hark! I hear a mighty murmur among the jostling crowd!
A cry!—a shout!—a roar of voices!—it echoes long and loud!
There dashes a horseman with foaming steed and tightly-gathered rein!
He sits erect!—he waves his hand!—good Heaven! 'tis Allen Bayne!
The lost is found, the dead alive, my safety is achieved!
For he waves his hand again, and shouts, “The prisoner is reprieved!”
Now, mother, praise the God you love, and raise your drooping head;
For the murderous gallows, black and grim, is cheated of its dead!
A cry!—a shout!—a roar of voices!—it echoes long and loud!
There dashes a horseman with foaming steed and tightly-gathered rein!
He sits erect!—he waves his hand!—good Heaven! 'tis Allen Bayne!
The lost is found, the dead alive, my safety is achieved!
For he waves his hand again, and shouts, “The prisoner is reprieved!”
Now, mother, praise the God you love, and raise your drooping head;
For the murderous gallows, black and grim, is cheated of its dead!
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UP THE LINE.
Through blinding storm and clouds of night,
We swiftly pushed our restless flight;
With thundering hoof and warning neigh,
We urged our steed upon his way
Up the line.
We swiftly pushed our restless flight;
With thundering hoof and warning neigh,
We urged our steed upon his way
Up the line.
Afar the lofty head-light gleamed;
Afar the whistle shrieked and screamed;
And glistening bright, and rising high,
Our flakes of fire bestrewed the sky,
Up the line.
Afar the whistle shrieked and screamed;
And glistening bright, and rising high,
Our flakes of fire bestrewed the sky,
Up the line.
Adown the long, complaining track,
Our wheels a message hurried back;
And quivering through the rails ahead,
Went news of our resistless tread,
Up the line.
Our wheels a message hurried back;
And quivering through the rails ahead,
Went news of our resistless tread,
Up the line.
The trees gave back our din and shout,
And flung their shadow-arms about;
And shivering in their coats of gray,
They heard us roaring far away,
Up the line.
And flung their shadow-arms about;
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They heard us roaring far away,
Up the line.
The wailing storm came on apace,
And dashed its tears into our face;
But steadily still we pierced it through,
And cut the sweeping wind in two,
Up the line.
And dashed its tears into our face;
But steadily still we pierced it through,
And cut the sweeping wind in two,
Up the line.
A rattling rush across the ridge,
A thunder-peal beneath the bridge;
And valley and hill and sober plain
Re-echoed our triumphant strain,
Up the line.
A thunder-peal beneath the bridge;
And valley and hill and sober plain
Re-echoed our triumphant strain,
Up the line.
And when the eastern streaks of gray
Bespoke the dawn of coming day,
We halted our steed, his journey o'er,
And urged his giant form no more,
Up the line.
Bespoke the dawn of coming day,
We halted our steed, his journey o'er,
And urged his giant form no more,
Up the line.
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FORWARD!
The beast that counts a heart can feel it beat—
The man who counts a soul can feel it yearn;
The while it guides his willing, eager feet,
Where Triumph calls, and Victory's altars burn.
The while it prompts his head and hands to earn
That which shall place him at the front: the when
Humanity his merits shall discern,
And give to him a place of honor; then
Acknowledging a man among his fellow-men!
The man who counts a soul can feel it yearn;
The while it guides his willing, eager feet,
Where Triumph calls, and Victory's altars burn.
The while it prompts his head and hands to earn
That which shall place him at the front: the when
Humanity his merits shall discern,
And give to him a place of honor; then
Acknowledging a man among his fellow-men!
The Fates decreed us, at the birth of Time,
The Fates decree, and hold the fiat still,
That they who can not or who will not climb,
Be trampled down by them who can and will.
Philanthropists may take the doctrine ill,
And nobly lift their suffering fellows high;
And he who strives to clamber up the hill,
Though weak, has help, for God helps them that try;
But he who will not strive had best lie down and die!
The Fates decree, and hold the fiat still,
That they who can not or who will not climb,
Be trampled down by them who can and will.
Philanthropists may take the doctrine ill,
And nobly lift their suffering fellows high;
And he who strives to clamber up the hill,
Though weak, has help, for God helps them that try;
But he who will not strive had best lie down and die!
For hammer, axe, and spade will vex his ears,
And spindles whirl about his idle head;
The steamer's shriek will rouse his feeble fears,
The lightning-train will shake him in his bed!
The nets of cliques and clans will round him spread;
And Time—a chariot to the man who strives—
Will be a funeral car, and he its dead,
Till he unto his charnel-home arrives.
A million men have lived good corses all their lives!
And spindles whirl about his idle head;
The steamer's shriek will rouse his feeble fears,
The lightning-train will shake him in his bed!
The nets of cliques and clans will round him spread;
And Time—a chariot to the man who strives—
Will be a funeral car, and he its dead,
Till he unto his charnel-home arrives.
A million men have lived good corses all their lives!
A tiny floweret blossoms under foot,
And turns its dainty petals to the sky;
Draws life from earth and air, through leaf and root,
While yet Destruction broods and lingers nigh.
But naught that seems inaction we descry,
Though summer wanes, and autumn winds are cold;
When effort fails, the plant is fain to die;
Its energies and days at once are told;
And soon it hangs its head and crumbles to the mold.
And turns its dainty petals to the sky;
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While yet Destruction broods and lingers nigh.
But naught that seems inaction we descry,
Though summer wanes, and autumn winds are cold;
When effort fails, the plant is fain to die;
Its energies and days at once are told;
And soon it hangs its head and crumbles to the mold.
A rainbow arches on the clouded sky,
But ne'er for long its colors flash and play;
A comet shines upon the gazing eye,
But still is speeding on its endless way.
Sun, moon, and stars—not one of them may stay;
For not an orb—howe'er it seem to stand—
But marches grandly on by night and day,
Nor cares nor dares to halt, without command
Of Him, the mighty Chief, by whom the route was planned.
But ne'er for long its colors flash and play;
A comet shines upon the gazing eye,
But still is speeding on its endless way.
Sun, moon, and stars—not one of them may stay;
For not an orb—howe'er it seem to stand—
But marches grandly on by night and day,
Nor cares nor dares to halt, without command
Of Him, the mighty Chief, by whom the route was planned.
There is not that in earth, or air, or space,
There is not that in heart, or mind, or soul
(Save in one sacred and mysterious Place),
But hurries forward to some future goal,
Or wanders back to an inglorious whole,
Wherefrom it sprung—whereto it turns to die;
And He who keeps all motion in control—
Whom change and dissolution come not nigh—
The same for evermore—is the great God on high.
There is not that in heart, or mind, or soul
(Save in one sacred and mysterious Place),
But hurries forward to some future goal,
Or wanders back to an inglorious whole,
Wherefrom it sprung—whereto it turns to die;
And He who keeps all motion in control—
Whom change and dissolution come not nigh—
The same for evermore—is the great God on high.
Man loves to clamber on the steeps of fame,
Then rest awhile his wearied limbs; and yet
Each day some fellow-man must learn his name,
To stand for one who may that name forget;
Each changing year his altitude must grow;
Or, twined about with Comfort's gaudy net,
His indolence may plot his overthrow,
And he may plunge into the deep, dead gulf below.
Then rest awhile his wearied limbs; and yet
Each day some fellow-man must learn his name,
To stand for one who may that name forget;
Each changing year his altitude must grow;
Or, twined about with Comfort's gaudy net,
His indolence may plot his overthrow,
And he may plunge into the deep, dead gulf below.
Yet many a knight who mingles in the broil
Falls, ere his sun has reached its highest place:
Death strikes the strongest reaper in his toil,
And stops the swiftest runner of the race.
But time is short, and death is no disgrace,
But rather, to the faithful man, a friend;
And leaves a glory on the marble face
Of him who holds out faithful to the end—
Whose ways are brave and true—so far as they extend.
Falls, ere his sun has reached its highest place:
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And stops the swiftest runner of the race.
But time is short, and death is no disgrace,
But rather, to the faithful man, a friend;
And leaves a glory on the marble face
Of him who holds out faithful to the end—
Whose ways are brave and true—so far as they extend.
Then forward, men and women! let the bell
Of progress echo through each wakened mind!
Let the grand chorus through our numbers swell—
Who will not hasten shall be left behind!
Who conquers, shall a crown of glory find;
Who falls, if faithful, shall but fall to rise
Free from the tear-drenched clay that clogs mankind,
To where new triumphs greet his eager eyes;
Forward will ever be the watchword of the skies!
Of progress echo through each wakened mind!
Let the grand chorus through our numbers swell—
Who will not hasten shall be left behind!
Who conquers, shall a crown of glory find;
Who falls, if faithful, shall but fall to rise
Free from the tear-drenched clay that clogs mankind,
To where new triumphs greet his eager eyes;
Forward will ever be the watchword of the skies!
146
THE SHIP-BUILDER.
Across the foaming, word-lashed sea of thought,
Where heavy craft were struggling with the storm,
The winds, one day, an unknown vessel brought,
Of flaunting streamer and fantastic form.
Old captains shook their grizzled heads in doubt,
And vainly strove to make the stranger out;
And critic gunners raised their ready hand,
To fire at what they could not understand.
Where heavy craft were struggling with the storm,
The winds, one day, an unknown vessel brought,
Of flaunting streamer and fantastic form.
Old captains shook their grizzled heads in doubt,
And vainly strove to make the stranger out;
And critic gunners raised their ready hand,
To fire at what they could not understand.
But, crowding sail, she rode the dangerous waves,
Swept past old wrecks and signals of distress,
And o'er forgotten hulks and nameless graves,
Straight glided to the harbor of success!
The weary world looked for a little while—
Its care-worn face grew brighter, with a smile;
Until its voice caught rapture from its gaze,
And swelled into a thunder-peal of praise!
Swept past old wrecks and signals of distress,
And o'er forgotten hulks and nameless graves,
Straight glided to the harbor of success!
The weary world looked for a little while—
Its care-worn face grew brighter, with a smile;
Until its voice caught rapture from its gaze,
And swelled into a thunder-peal of praise!
The outstripp'd jester, smiling, dropped his pun;
The sage looked up, with pleased, instructed eyes;
The critic raised his double-shotted gun,
And jubilantly fired it at the skies!
The laboring throng, when their day's toil was o'er,
Crowded along this unaccustomed shore,
And viewed, with wonder and delight oft told,
The varied treasures of her deck and hold.
The sage looked up, with pleased, instructed eyes;
The critic raised his double-shotted gun,
And jubilantly fired it at the skies!
The laboring throng, when their day's toil was o'er,
Crowded along this unaccustomed shore,
And viewed, with wonder and delight oft told,
The varied treasures of her deck and hold.
For there, arrayed in quaint and genial pride,
Stood Pickwick, captain of the motley crew;
The sturdy Samuel Weller by his side,
And many a passenger the people knew;
And, stored among this cargo of new mirth,
Flashed forth the brightest diamonds of earth;
Treasures of Nature's undissembled arts;
And stores of food for hungry, yearning hearts.
Stood Pickwick, captain of the motley crew;
The sturdy Samuel Weller by his side,
And many a passenger the people knew;
147
Flashed forth the brightest diamonds of earth;
Treasures of Nature's undissembled arts;
And stores of food for hungry, yearning hearts.
And ever as they gazed, and rushed to gaze,
Came sweeping o'er the sea another gale,
And gleamed upon their glad eyes, through the haze,
The welcome whiteness of another sail!
Rich loaded was one bark, and fair to see,
But aimed great guns at petty tyranny;
And as she swiftly glided safe to land,
Young Captain Nickleby was in command.
Came sweeping o'er the sea another gale,
And gleamed upon their glad eyes, through the haze,
The welcome whiteness of another sail!
Rich loaded was one bark, and fair to see,
But aimed great guns at petty tyranny;
And as she swiftly glided safe to land,
Young Captain Nickleby was in command.
There came a ship of stranger seeming still,
With “Curiosities” in plenty stored;
And thousands crowded 'round her, with one will,
To view the passengers she had on board.
And one there was—her name was “Little Nell”—
The people much admired, and loved full well;
And many wept, and lingered at her side,
When, wearily, she laid her down and died.
With “Curiosities” in plenty stored;
And thousands crowded 'round her, with one will,
To view the passengers she had on board.
And one there was—her name was “Little Nell”—
The people much admired, and loved full well;
And many wept, and lingered at her side,
When, wearily, she laid her down and died.
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So one by one to port the vessels came,
Laden with comforts for both rich and poor,
But hurling balls of scorn-envenomed flame
At tyrant, rogue, and snob, and titled boor.
And each new ship the multitude flocked 'round,
Rejoicing o'er the treasures that they found;
And as each new sail flashing came to sight,
Broke forth a thousand plaudits of delight!
Laden with comforts for both rich and poor,
But hurling balls of scorn-envenomed flame
At tyrant, rogue, and snob, and titled boor.
And each new ship the multitude flocked 'round,
Rejoicing o'er the treasures that they found;
And as each new sail flashing came to sight,
Broke forth a thousand plaudits of delight!
And so the millions, eager to confess
The pleasures they from his creations drew,
Hastened to praise, and glorify, and bless
The toiling man whose face they hardly knew,
Who, in his lonely room, worked for his goal,
With busy brain, and tender, yearning soul;
And with his good pen built and rigged and manned
The noble argosies his genius planned.
The pleasures they from his creations drew,
Hastened to praise, and glorify, and bless
The toiling man whose face they hardly knew,
Who, in his lonely room, worked for his goal,
With busy brain, and tender, yearning soul;
And with his good pen built and rigged and manned
The noble argosies his genius planned.
But one bright day the news gloomed o'er the earth
That he, belovéd guest of many lands,
Had gone where first his clear-eyed soul had birth,
Led by the pressure of down-reaching hands.
No monarch resting on his crape-strown bed
Had e'er such tears of sorrow o'er him shed,
As this untitled king of grief and mirth,
Whose subjects mourned in every clime of earth!
That he, belovéd guest of many lands,
Had gone where first his clear-eyed soul had birth,
Led by the pressure of down-reaching hands.
No monarch resting on his crape-strown bed
Had e'er such tears of sorrow o'er him shed,
As this untitled king of grief and mirth,
Whose subjects mourned in every clime of earth!
O master of the heart! if in yon land
Thou canst but wander through its streets and vales,
And then before the countless millions stand
And tell thy merry and pathetic tales,
If thou canst yet thy daily toil prolong,
Plead for the right, and battle with the wrong,
The happiness of heaven will o'er thee spread,
For thou thy path heaven-given still wilt tread!
Thou canst but wander through its streets and vales,
And then before the countless millions stand
And tell thy merry and pathetic tales,
If thou canst yet thy daily toil prolong,
Plead for the right, and battle with the wrong,
The happiness of heaven will o'er thee spread,
For thou thy path heaven-given still wilt tread!
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HOW WE KEPT THE DAY.
I.
The great procession came up the street,With clatter of hoofs and tramp of feet;
There was General Jones to guide the van,
And Corporal Jinks, his right-hand man;
And each was riding his high horse,
And each had epaulettes, of course;
And each had a sash of the bloodiest red,
And each had a shako on his head;
And each had a sword by his left side,
And each had his mustache newly dyed;
And that was the way
We kept the day,
The great, the grand, the glorious day,
That gave us—
Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!
(With a battle or two, the histories say,)
Our National Independence!
II.
The great procession came up the street,With loud da capo, and brazen repeat;
There was Hans, the leader, a Teuton born,
A sharp who worried the E flat horn;
And Baritone Jake, and Alto Mike,
Who never played any thing twice alike;
And Tenor Tom, of conservative mind,
Who always came out a note behind;
And Dick, whose tuba was seldom dumb,
And Bob, who punished the big bass drum.
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The martial band discoursed its best;
The ponderous drum and the pointed fife
Proceeded to roll and shriek for life;
And Bonaparte Crossed the Rhine, anon,
And The Girl I Left Behind Me came on
And that was the way
The bands did play
On the loud, high-toned, harmonious day,
That gave us—
Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!
(With some music of bullets, our sires would say,)
Our glorious Independence!
III.
The great procession came up the street,With a wagon of virgins, sour and sweet;
Each bearing the bloom of recent date,
Each misrepresenting a single State.
There was California, pious and prim,
And Louisiana, humming a hymn;
The Texas lass was the smallest one—
Rhode Island weighed the tenth of a ton;
The Empire State was pure as a pearl,
And Massachusetts a modest girl;
Vermont was red as the blush of a rose—
And the goddess sported a turn-up nose;
And looked, free sylph, where she painfully sat,
The worlds she would give to be out of that.
And in this way
The maidens gay
Flashed up the street on the beautiful day,
That gave us—
Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!
(With some sacrifices, our mothers would say,)
Our glorious Independence!
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IV.
The great procession came up the street,With firemen uniformed flashily neat;
There was Tubbs, the foreman, with voice like five,
The happiest, proudest man alive;
With a trumpet half as long as a gun,
Which he used for the glory of “Number 1;”
There was Nubbs, who had climbed a ladder high,
And saved a dog that was left to die;
There was Cubbs, who had dressed in black and blue
The eye of the foreman of Number 2.
And each marched on with steady stride,
And each had a look of fiery pride;
And each glanced slyly round, with a whim
That all of the girls were looking at him;
And that was the way,
With grand display,
They marched through the blaze of the glowing day,
That gave us—
Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!
(With some hot fighting, our fathers would say,)
Our glorious Independence!
V.
The eager orator took the stand,In the cause of our great and happy land;
He aired his own political views,
He told us all of the latest news:
How the Boston folks one night took tea—
Their grounds for steeping it in the sea;
What a heap of Britons our fathers did kill,
At the little skirmish of Bunker Hill;
He put us all in anxious doubt
As to how that matter was coming out;
And when at last he had fought us through
To the bloodless year of '82,
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That he, as well as the war, was done.
But he continued to painfully soar
For something less than a century more;
Until at last he had fairly begun
The wars of eighteen-sixty-one;
And never rested till 'neath the tree
That shadowed the glory of Robert Lee.
And then he inquired, with martial frown,
“Americans, must we go down?”
And as an answer from Heaven were sent,
The stand gave way, and down he went.
A singer or two beneath him did drop—
A big fat alderman fell atop;
And that was the way
Our orator lay,
Till we fished him out, on the eloquent day,
That gave us—
Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!
(With a clash of arms, Pat. Henry would say,)
Our wordy Independence!
VI.
The marshal his hungry compatriots led,Where Freedom's viands were thickly spread,
With all that man or woman could eat,
From crisp to sticky—from sour to sweet.
There were chickens that scarce had learned to crow,
And veteran roosters of long ago;
There was one old turkey, huge and fierce,
That was hatched in the days of President Pierce;
Of which, at last, with an ominous groan,
The parson essayed to swallow a bone;
And it took three sinners, plucky and stout,
To grapple the evil and bring it out.
And still the dinner went merrily on,
And James and Lucy and Hannah and John
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And passing the eatables into eclipse.
And that was the way
The grand array
Of victuals vanished on that day,
That gave us—
Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!
(With some starvation, the records say,)
Our well-fed Independence!
VII.
The people went home through the sultry night,In a murky mood and a pitiful plight;
Not more had the rockets' sticks gone down,
Than the spirits of them who had “been to town;”
Not more did the fire-balloon collapse,
Than the pride of them who had known mishaps.
There were feathers ruffled, and tempers roiled,
And several brand-new dresses spoiled;
There were hearts that ached from envy's thorns,
And feet that twinged with trampled corns;
There were joys proved empty, through and through,
And several purses empty, too;
And some reeled homeward, muddled and late,
Who hadn't taken their glory straight;
And some were fated to lodge, that night,
In the city lock-up, snug and tight:
And that was the way
The deuce was to pay,
As it always is, at the close of the day,
That gave us—
Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!
(With some restrictions, the fault-finders say,)
That which, please God, we will keep for aye—
Our National Independence!
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OUR ARMY OF THE DEAD.
By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar,
And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore,
On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone is laid,
On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed,
Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await,
Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State,
With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head,
Is a band of noble heroes—is our Army of the Dead.
And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the shore,
On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone is laid,
On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed,
Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await,
Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State,
With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head,
Is a band of noble heroes—is our Army of the Dead.
On the lake-encircled homestead of the thriving Wolverine,
On the beauteous Western prairies, with their carpeting of green,
By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's pride and boast,
On the rugged Rocky Mountains, and the weird Pacific coast,
In the listless, sunny Southland, with its blossoms and its vines,
On the bracing Northern hill-tops, and amid their murmuring pines,
Over all our happy country—over all our Nation spread,
Is a band of noble heroes—is our Army of the Dead.
On the beauteous Western prairies, with their carpeting of green,
By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's pride and boast,
On the rugged Rocky Mountains, and the weird Pacific coast,
In the listless, sunny Southland, with its blossoms and its vines,
On the bracing Northern hill-tops, and amid their murmuring pines,
Over all our happy country—over all our Nation spread,
Is a band of noble heroes—is our Army of the Dead.
Not with musket, and with sabre, and with glad heart beating fast;
Not with cannon that had thundered till the bloody war was past;
Not with voices that are shouting with the vim of victory's note;
Not with armor gayly glistening, and with flags that proudly float;
Not with air of martial vigor, nor with steady, soldier tramp,
Come they grandly marching to us—for the boys are all in camp.
With forgetfulness upon it—each within his earthy bed,
Waiting for his marching orders—is our Army of the Dead.
Not with cannon that had thundered till the bloody war was past;
Not with voices that are shouting with the vim of victory's note;
Not with armor gayly glistening, and with flags that proudly float;
Not with air of martial vigor, nor with steady, soldier tramp,
Come they grandly marching to us—for the boys are all in camp.
With forgetfulness upon it—each within his earthy bed,
Waiting for his marching orders—is our Army of the Dead.
Fast asleep the boys are lying, in their low and narrow tents,
And no battle-cry can wake them, and no orders call them hence;
And the yearnings of the mother, and the anguish of the wife,
Can not with their magic presence call the soldier back to life;
And the brother's manly sorrow, and the father's mournful pride,
Can not give back to his country him who for his country died.
They who for the trembling Nation in its hour of trial bled,
Lie, in these its years of triumph, with our Army of the Dead.
And no battle-cry can wake them, and no orders call them hence;
And the yearnings of the mother, and the anguish of the wife,
Can not with their magic presence call the soldier back to life;
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Can not give back to his country him who for his country died.
They who for the trembling Nation in its hour of trial bled,
Lie, in these its years of triumph, with our Army of the Dead.
When the years of Earth are over, and the cares of Earth are done,
When the reign of Time is ended, and Eternity begun,
When the thunders of Omniscience on our wakened senses roll,
And the sky above shall wither, and be gathered like a scroll;
When, among the lofty mountains, and across the mighty sea,
The sublime celestial bugler shall ring out the reveille,
Then shall march with brightest laurels, and with proud, victorious tread,
To their station up in heaven, our Grand Army of the Dead!
When the reign of Time is ended, and Eternity begun,
When the thunders of Omniscience on our wakened senses roll,
And the sky above shall wither, and be gathered like a scroll;
When, among the lofty mountains, and across the mighty sea,
The sublime celestial bugler shall ring out the reveille,
Then shall march with brightest laurels, and with proud, victorious tread,
To their station up in heaven, our Grand Army of the Dead!
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“MENDING THE OLD FLAG.”
In the silent gloom of a garret room,
With cobwebs round it creeping,
From day to day the old Flag lay—
A veteran worn and sleeping.
Dingily old, each wrinkled fold
By the dust of years was shaded;
Wounds of the storm were upon its form;
The crimson stripes were faded.
With cobwebs round it creeping,
From day to day the old Flag lay—
A veteran worn and sleeping.
Dingily old, each wrinkled fold
By the dust of years was shaded;
Wounds of the storm were upon its form;
The crimson stripes were faded.
'Twas a mournful sight in the day-twilight,
This thing of humble seeming,
That once so proud o'er the cheering crowd
Had carried its colors gleaming:
Stained with mould were the braids of gold,
That had flashed at the sun-ray's kissing;
Of faded hue was its field of blue,
And some of the stars were missing.
This thing of humble seeming,
That once so proud o'er the cheering crowd
Had carried its colors gleaming:
Stained with mould were the braids of gold,
That had flashed at the sun-ray's kissing;
Of faded hue was its field of blue,
And some of the stars were missing.
Three Northern maids and three from glades
Where dreams the South-land weather,
With glances kind and their arms entwined,
Came up the stair together:
They gazed awhile, with a thoughtful smile,
At the crouching form before them;
With clinging holds they grasped its folds,
And out of the darkness bore them.
Where dreams the South-land weather,
With glances kind and their arms entwined,
Came up the stair together:
They gazed awhile, with a thoughtful smile,
At the crouching form before them;
With clinging holds they grasped its folds,
And out of the darkness bore them.
They healed its scars, they found its stars,
And brought them all together
(Three Northern maids and three from glades
Where smiles the South-land weather);
They mended away through the summer day,
Made glad by an inspiration
To fling it high at the smiling sky,
On the birthday of our nation.
And brought them all together
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Where smiles the South-land weather);
They mended away through the summer day,
Made glad by an inspiration
To fling it high at the smiling sky,
On the birthday of our nation.
In the brilliant glare of the summer air,
With a brisk breeze round it creeping,
Newly bright through the glistening light,
The flag went grandly sweeping:
Gleaming and bold were its braids of gold,
And flashed in the sun-ray's kissing;
Red, white, and blue were of deepest hue,
And none of the stars were missing.
With a brisk breeze round it creeping,
Newly bright through the glistening light,
The flag went grandly sweeping:
Gleaming and bold were its braids of gold,
And flashed in the sun-ray's kissing;
Red, white, and blue were of deepest hue,
And none of the stars were missing.
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