 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes |  |
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PARODIES.
MARTHA HOPKINS.
A BALLAD OF INDIANA.
From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stands there making pies,
Southward looks, along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes;
Where, along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds,
And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds.
Southward looks, along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes;
Where, along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds,
And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds.
All the air is full of noises, for there is n't any school,
And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool;
Blithely frisk unnumbered chickens, cackling, for they cannot laugh:
Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf.
And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool;
Blithely frisk unnumbered chickens, cackling, for they cannot laugh:
Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf.
Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gaze
On the ground that's being furrowed for the planting of the maize?
Tell me wherefore down the valley ye have traced the turnpike's way,
Far beyond the cattle-pasture, and the brickyard, with its clay?
On the ground that's being furrowed for the planting of the maize?
Tell me wherefore down the valley ye have traced the turnpike's way,
Far beyond the cattle-pasture, and the brickyard, with its clay?
Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine,
With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line,
And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her freckled cheek,—
Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.
With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line,
And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her freckled cheek,—
Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.
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When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glowed,
She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike-road;
Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn,
Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn.
She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike-road;
Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn,
Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn.
Ere the supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln of brick,
Crossed the rushing Yellow River, and had forded quite a creek,
And his flatboat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans,
With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.
Crossed the rushing Yellow River, and had forded quite a creek,
And his flatboat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans,
With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.
Therefore watches Martha Hopkins, holding in her hand the pans,
When a sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's;
Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars,
But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.
When a sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's;
Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars,
But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.
Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the turnpike rough,
But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough;
Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps,
As he jogs along at leisure, with his head down like a sheep's.
But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough;
Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps,
As he jogs along at leisure, with his head down like a sheep's.
She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest;
By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west;
By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spread,
By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.
By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west;
By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spread,
By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.
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None like he the yoke of hickory on the unbroken ox can throw,
None amid his father's cornfields use like him the spade and hoe;
And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen
That can dance with him the Polka, touch with him the violin.
None amid his father's cornfields use like him the spade and hoe;
And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen
That can dance with him the Polka, touch with him the violin.
He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now,
For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow,
When the buckeye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants his corn,
Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn.
For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow,
When the buckeye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants his corn,
Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn.
He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and gown,
And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town;
That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give,
To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'll live.
And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town;
That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give,
To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'll live.
Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape?
'T is a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape.
Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees,
One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees.
'T is a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape.
Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees,
One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees.
But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread,
As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed.
Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair,
'T is the sorrel horse that gallops, 't is John Jackson's self that 's there!
As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed.
Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair,
'T is the sorrel horse that gallops, 't is John Jackson's self that 's there!
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WORSER MOMENTS.
That fellow's voice! how often steals
Its cadence o'er my lonely days!
Like something sent on wagon-wheels,
Or packed in an unconscious chaise.
I might forget the words he said
When all the children fret and cry,
But when I get them off to bed,
His gentle tone comes stealing by,
And years of matrimony flee,
And leave me sitting on his knee.
Its cadence o'er my lonely days!
Like something sent on wagon-wheels,
Or packed in an unconscious chaise.
I might forget the words he said
When all the children fret and cry,
But when I get them off to bed,
His gentle tone comes stealing by,
And years of matrimony flee,
And leave me sitting on his knee.
The times he came to court a spell,
The tender things he said to me,
Make me remember mighty well
My hopes that he'd propose to me.
My face is uglier, and perhaps
Time and the comb have thinned my hair,
And plain and common are the caps
And dresses that I have to wear;
But memory is ever yet
With all that fellow's flatteries writ.
The tender things he said to me,
Make me remember mighty well
My hopes that he'd propose to me.
My face is uglier, and perhaps
Time and the comb have thinned my hair,
And plain and common are the caps
And dresses that I have to wear;
But memory is ever yet
With all that fellow's flatteries writ.
I have been out at milking-time
Beneath a dull and rainy sky,
When in the barn 't was time to feed,
And calves were bawling lustily,—
When scattered hay, and sheaves of oats,
And yellow corn-ears, sound and hard,
And all that makes the cattle pass
With wilder fleetness through the yard,—
When all was hateful, then have I,
With friends who had to help me milk,
Talked of his wife most spitefully,
And how he kept her dressed in silk;
And when the cattle, running there,
Threw over me a shower of mud,
That fellow's voice came on the air,
Like the light chewing of the end,
And resting near some speckled cow,
The spirit of a woman's spite,
I 've poured a low and fervent vow
To make him, if I had the might,
Live all his lifetime just as hard,
And milk his cows in such a yard.
Beneath a dull and rainy sky,
When in the barn 't was time to feed,
And calves were bawling lustily,—
When scattered hay, and sheaves of oats,
And yellow corn-ears, sound and hard,
And all that makes the cattle pass
With wilder fleetness through the yard,—
When all was hateful, then have I,
With friends who had to help me milk,
Talked of his wife most spitefully,
And how he kept her dressed in silk;
And when the cattle, running there,
Threw over me a shower of mud,
That fellow's voice came on the air,
Like the light chewing of the end,
And resting near some speckled cow,
The spirit of a woman's spite,
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To make him, if I had the might,
Live all his lifetime just as hard,
And milk his cows in such a yard.
I have been out to pick up wood,
When night was stealing from the dawn,
Before the fire was burning good,
Or I had put the kettle on
The little stove,—when babes were waking
With a low murmur in the beds,
And melody by fits was breaking
Above their little yellow heads,—
And this when I was up perhaps
From a few short and troubled naps,—
And when the sun sprang scorchingly
And freely up, and made us stifle,
And fell upon each hill and tree
The bullets from his subtle rifle,—
I say a voice has thrilled me then,
Hard by that solemn pile of wood,
Or creeping from the silent glen,
Like something on the unfledged brood,
Hath stricken me, and I have pressed
Close in my arms my load of chips,
And pouring forth the hatefulest
Of words that ever passed my lips,
Have felt my woman's spirit rush
On me, as on that milking night,
And, yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable spite,
Have risen up, the red, the old,
Scolding as hard as I could scold.
When night was stealing from the dawn,
Before the fire was burning good,
Or I had put the kettle on
The little stove,—when babes were waking
With a low murmur in the beds,
And melody by fits was breaking
Above their little yellow heads,—
And this when I was up perhaps
From a few short and troubled naps,—
And when the sun sprang scorchingly
And freely up, and made us stifle,
And fell upon each hill and tree
The bullets from his subtle rifle,—
I say a voice has thrilled me then,
Hard by that solemn pile of wood,
Or creeping from the silent glen,
Like something on the unfledged brood,
Hath stricken me, and I have pressed
Close in my arms my load of chips,
And pouring forth the hatefulest
Of words that ever passed my lips,
Have felt my woman's spirit rush
On me, as on that milking night,
And, yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable spite,
Have risen up, the red, the old,
Scolding as hard as I could scold.
THE ANNOYER.
“Common as light is love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.”—
Shelley.
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.”—
Shelley.
Love knoweth everybody's house,
And every human haunt,
And comes unbidden everywhere,
Like people we don't want.
The turnpike-roads and little creeks
Are written with love's words,
And you hear his voice like a thousand bricks
In the lowing of the herds.
And every human haunt,
And comes unbidden everywhere,
Like people we don't want.
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Are written with love's words,
And you hear his voice like a thousand bricks
In the lowing of the herds.
He peeps into the teamster's heart,
From his Buena Vista's rim,
And the cracking whips of many men
Can never frighten him.
He'll come to his cart in the weary night,
When he 's dreaming of his craft;
And he'll float to his eye in the morning light
Like a man on a river raft.
From his Buena Vista's rim,
And the cracking whips of many men
Can never frighten him.
He'll come to his cart in the weary night,
When he 's dreaming of his craft;
And he'll float to his eye in the morning light
Like a man on a river raft.
He hears the sound of the cooper's adze,
And makes him, too, his dupe,
For he sighs in his ear from the shaving pile,
As he hammers on the hoop.
The little girl, the beardless boy,
The men that walk or stand,
He will get them all in his mighty arms,
Like the grasp of your very hand.
And makes him, too, his dupe,
For he sighs in his ear from the shaving pile,
As he hammers on the hoop.
The little girl, the beardless boy,
The men that walk or stand,
He will get them all in his mighty arms,
Like the grasp of your very hand.
The shoemaker bangs above his bench,
And ponders his shining awl,
For love is under the lapstone hid,
And a spell is on the wall.
It heaves the sole where he drives the pegs,
And speaks in every blow,
Till the last is dropped from his crafty hand
And his foot hangs bare below.
And ponders his shining awl,
For love is under the lapstone hid,
And a spell is on the wall.
It heaves the sole where he drives the pegs,
And speaks in every blow,
Till the last is dropped from his crafty hand
And his foot hangs bare below.
He blurs the prints which the shopmen sell,
And intrudes on the hatter's trade,
And profanes the hostler's stable-yard
In the shape of the chamber-maid.
In the darkest night and the bright daylight,
Knowing that he can win,
In every home of good-looking folks
Will human love come in.
And intrudes on the hatter's trade,
And profanes the hostler's stable-yard
In the shape of the chamber-maid.
In the darkest night and the bright daylight,
Knowing that he can win,
In every home of good-looking folks
Will human love come in.
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SAMUEL BROWN.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.
I was a child, and he was a child,
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown,
With a love that the ladies coveted
Me and Samuel Brown.
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown,
With a love that the ladies coveted
Me and Samuel Brown.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;—
So that her high-bred kinsman came
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling-house,
In a street quite up in town.
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;—
So that her high-bred kinsman came
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling-house,
In a street quite up in town.
The ladies not half so happy up there,
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason, (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason, (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.
But our love is more artful by far than the love
Of those who are older than we,—
Of many far wiser than we,
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.
For the morn never shines without bringing me lines
From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night's never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.
Of those who are older than we,—
Of many far wiser than we,
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.
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From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night's never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.
GRANNY'S HOUSE.
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn,Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the dinner-horn.
'T is the place, and all about it, as of old, the rat and mouse
Very loudly squeak and nibble, running over Granny's house;—
Granny's house, with all its cupboards, and its rooms as neat as wax,
And its chairs of wood unpainted, where the old cats rubbed their backs,
Many a night from yonder garret window, ere I went to rest,
Did I see the cows and horses come in slowly from the west;
Many a night I saw the chickens, flying upward through the trees,
Roosting on the sleety branches, when I thought their feet would freeze;
Here about the garden wandered, nourishing a youth sublime
With the beans, and sweet potatoes, and the melons which were prime;
When the pumpkin-vines behind me with their precious fruit reposed,
When I clung about the pear-tree, for the promise that it closed,
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Saw the vision of the pie, and all the dessert that would be.
In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
In the spring the noisy pullet gets herself another nest;
In the spring a livelier spirit makes the ladies' tongues more glib;
In the spring a young boy's fancy lightly hatches up a fib.
Then her cheek was plump and fatter than should be for one so old,
And she eyed my every motion, with a mute intent to scold.
And I said, My worthy Granny, now I speak the truth to thee,—
Better believe it,—I have eaten all the apples from one tree.
On her kindling cheek and forehead came a color and a light,
As I have seen the rosy red flashing in the northern night;
And she turned,—her fist was shaken at the coolness of the lie;
She was mad, and I could see it, by the snapping of her eye,
Saying I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do thee wrong,—
Saying, “I shall whip you, Sammy, whipping, I shall go it strong!”
She took me up and turned me pretty roughly, when she'd done,
And every time she shook me, I tried to jerk and run;
She took off my little coat, and struck again with all her might,
And before another minute I was free and out of sight.
Many a morning, just to tease her, did I tell her stories yet,
Though her whisper made me tingle, when she told me what I 'd get;
Many an evening did I see her where the willow sprouts grew thick,
And I rushed away from Granny at the touching of her stick.
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O the empty, empty garret, O the garden gone to weeds,
Crosser than all fancy fathoms, crosser than all songs have sung,
I was puppet to your threat, and servile to your shrewish tongue,
Is it well to wish thee happy, having seen thy whip decline
On a boy with lower shoulders, and a narrower back, than mine?
Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the dinner-horn,—
They to whom my Granny's whippings were a target for their scorn;
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string?
I am shamed through all my nature to have loved the mean old thing;
Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's spite,
Nature made them quicker motions, a considerable sight.
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy whippings matched with mine
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.
Here at least when I was little, something. O, for some retreat
Deep in yonder crowded city where my life began to beat,
Where one winter fell my father, slipping off a keg of lard;
I was left a trampled orphan, and my case was pretty hard,
Or to burst all links of habit, and to wander far and fleet,
On from farm-house unto farm-house till I found my Uncle Pete,
Larger sheds and barns, and newer, and a better neighborhood,
Greater breadth of field and woodland, and an orchard just as good.
Never comes my Granny, never cuts her willow switches there;
Boys are safe at Uncle Peter's, I'll bet you what you dare.
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'T is a sort of little Eden, about two miles off the pike.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment, more than being quite so near
To the place where even in manhood I almost shake with fear.
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing space.
I will 'scape that savage woman, she shall never rear my race;
Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall run;
She has caught me like a wild goat, but she shall not catch my son.
He shall whistle to the dog, and get the books from off the shelf,
Not, with blinded eyesight, cutting ugly whips to whip himself.
Fool again, the dream of fancy! no, I don't believe it's bliss,
But I'm certain Uncle Peter's is a better place than this.
Let them herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of all glorious gains,
Like the horses in the stables, like the sheep that crop the lanes;
Let them mate with dirty cousins,—what to me were style or rank,
I the heir of twenty acres, and some money in the bank?
Not in vain the distance beckons, forward let us urge our load,
Let our cart-wheels spin till sundown, ringing down the grooves of road;
Through the white dust of the turnpike she can't see to give us chase:
Better seven years at uncle's, than fourteen at Granny's place.
O, I see the blessed promise of my spirit hath not set!
If we once get in the wagon, we will circumvent her yet.
Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Granny's farm:
Not for me she'll cut the willows, not at me she'll shake her arm.
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Cramming all the blast before it,—guess it holds a thunderbolt:
Wish 't would fall on Granny's house, with rain, or hail, or fire, or snow,
Let me get my horses started Uncle Peteward, and I'll go.
THE DAY IS DONE.
The day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward
From a chicken going to roost.
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward
From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That I cannot well resist.
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That I cannot well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brick-bat resembles a brick.
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brick-bat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper,—
A good and regular meal,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
A good and regular meal,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry baker's,
Not from the shops for cake,
I would n't give a farthing
For all that they can make.
Not from the shops for cake,
I would n't give a farthing
For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
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Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
Whose beef is fresh and nice
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings
Are wonderful remedies.
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings
Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “Finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “Finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook,
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
From off the bench or hook,
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER.
A fellow near Kentucky's clime
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver dime
To row us o'er the ferry.”
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver dime
To row us o'er the ferry.”
“Now, who would cross the Ohio,
This dark and stormy water?”
“O, I am this young lady's beau,
And she John Thompson's daughter.
This dark and stormy water?”
“O, I am this young lady's beau,
And she John Thompson's daughter.
“We 've fled before her father's spite
With great precipitation,
And should he find us here to-night,
I 'd lose my reputation.
With great precipitation,
And should he find us here to-night,
I 'd lose my reputation.
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“They 've missed the girl and purse beside,
His horsemen hard have pressed me,
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they shall arrest me?”
His horsemen hard have pressed me,
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they shall arrest me?”
Out spoke the boatman then in time,
“You shall not fail, don't fear it;
I'll go, not for your silver dime,
But for your manly spirit.
“You shall not fail, don't fear it;
I'll go, not for your silver dime,
But for your manly spirit.
“And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
For though a storm is coming on,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.”
In danger shall not tarry;
For though a storm is coming on,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.”
By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing,
And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing.
The boat was at the landing,
And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing.
But still, as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.
And as the night grew drearer,
Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.
“O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“It 's anything but funny;
I'll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my father's money!”
“It 's anything but funny;
I'll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my father's money!”
And still they hurried in the face
Of wind and rain unsparing;
John Thompson reached the landing-place,
His wrath was turned to swearing.
Of wind and rain unsparing;
John Thompson reached the landing-place,
His wrath was turned to swearing.
For by the lightning's angry flash,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all the cash,
And one was round her lover!
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all the cash,
And one was round her lover!
“Come back, come back,” he cried in woe,
Across the stormy water;
“But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, O my daughter!”
Across the stormy water;
“But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, O my daughter!”
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'T was vain; they reached the other shore,
(Such dooms the Fates assign us,)
The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there, minus.
(Such dooms the Fates assign us,)
The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there, minus.
GIRLS WERE MADE TO MOURN.
When chill November's surly blast
Made everybody shiver,
One evening as I wandered forth,
Along the Wabash River,
I spied a woman past her prime,
Yet with a youthful air,
Her face was covered o'er with curls
Of well selected hair!
Made everybody shiver,
One evening as I wandered forth,
Along the Wabash River,
I spied a woman past her prime,
Yet with a youthful air,
Her face was covered o'er with curls
Of well selected hair!
Young woman, whither wanderest thou?
Began the prim old maid;
Are visions of a home to be,
In all thy dreams displayed?
Or haply wanting but a mate,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth with me to mourn
The indifference of man!
Began the prim old maid;
Are visions of a home to be,
In all thy dreams displayed?
Or haply wanting but a mate,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth with me to mourn
The indifference of man!
The sun that overhangs yon fields,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where thousands by their own hearth sit,
Or in their carriage ride,—
I 've seen yon weary winter sun
Just forty times return;
And every time has added proofs,
That girls were made to mourn!
Outspreading far and wide,
Where thousands by their own hearth sit,
Or in their carriage ride,—
I 've seen yon weary winter sun
Just forty times return;
And every time has added proofs,
That girls were made to mourn!
O girls! when in your early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all your precious hours,
Your glorious youthful prime!
Thinking to wed just when you please,
From beau to beau you turn,
Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That girls were made to mourn!
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all your precious hours,
Your glorious youthful prime!
467
From beau to beau you turn,
Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That girls were made to mourn!
Look not on them in youthful prime,
Ere life's best years are spent!
Man will be gallant to them then,
And give encouragement!
But see them when they cease to speak
Of each birthday's return;
Then want and single-blessedness
Show girls were made to mourn!
Ere life's best years are spent!
Man will be gallant to them then,
And give encouragement!
But see them when they cease to speak
Of each birthday's return;
Then want and single-blessedness
Show girls were made to mourn!
A few seem favorites of fate,
By husband's hands caressed,
But think not all the married folks
Are likewise truly blest.
For, oh! what crowds, whose lords are out,
That stay to patch and darn,
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That girls were made to mourn!
By husband's hands caressed,
But think not all the married folks
Are likewise truly blest.
For, oh! what crowds, whose lords are out,
That stay to patch and darn,
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That girls were made to mourn!
Many and sharp and numerous ills,
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,—
Man's cold indifference to us
Makes countless thousands mourn!
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,—
Man's cold indifference to us
Makes countless thousands mourn!
If I'm designed to live alone,—
By nature's law designed,—
Why was this constant wish to wed
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
Man's cruelty or scorn?
Or why has he the will and power
To make me for him mourn?
By nature's law designed,—
Why was this constant wish to wed
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
Man's cruelty or scorn?
Or why has he the will and power
To make me for him mourn?
See yonder young, accomplished girl,
Whose words are smooth as oil,
Who 'd marry almost any one
To keep her hands from toil;
But see, the lordly gentleman
Her favors don't return,
Unmindful though a weeping ma
And bankrupt father mourn!
Whose words are smooth as oil,
468
To keep her hands from toil;
But see, the lordly gentleman
Her favors don't return,
Unmindful though a weeping ma
And bankrupt father mourn!
Yet let not this, my hopeful girl,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This awful view of woman's fate
Is surely not the best!
The poor, despiséd, plain old maid
Had never sure been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those who mourn!
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This awful view of woman's fate
Is surely not the best!
The poor, despiséd, plain old maid
Had never sure been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those who mourn!
O death! the poor girl's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my weary limbs
Are laid with thee to rest!
The young, the married, fear thy blow
From hope or husbands torn;
But oh! a blest relief to those
In single life who mourn!
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my weary limbs
Are laid with thee to rest!
The young, the married, fear thy blow
From hope or husbands torn;
But oh! a blest relief to those
In single life who mourn!
TO INEZ.
Nay, smile not at my garments now;
Alas! I cannot smile again:
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst dress, and haply dress so plain.
Alas! I cannot smile again:
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst dress, and haply dress so plain.
And dost thou ask, Why should I be
The jest of every foe and friend?
And wilt thou vainly seek to see
A garb, even thou must fail to mend?
The jest of every foe and friend?
And wilt thou vainly seek to see
A garb, even thou must fail to mend?
It is not love, it is not hate,
Nor low Ambition's honors lost,
That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I loved the most.
Nor low Ambition's honors lost,
That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I loved the most.
469
It is the contrast which will spring
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
To me no garment tailors bring,—
Their shops have scarce a charm for me.
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
To me no garment tailors bring,—
Their shops have scarce a charm for me.
It is a something all who rub
Would know the owner long had wore;
That may not look beyond the tub,
And cannot hope for help before.
Would know the owner long had wore;
That may not look beyond the tub,
And cannot hope for help before.
What fellow from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
The blight of life,—the ragged Coat.
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
The blight of life,—the ragged Coat.
Yet others wrapt in broadcloth seem,
And taste of all that I forsake!
O, may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
And taste of all that I forsake!
O, may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
Through many a clime 't is mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,
Whate'er I wear, I 've worn the worst.
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,
Whate'er I wear, I 've worn the worst.
What is the worst? Nay, do not ask,—
In pity from the search forbear:
Smile on,—nor venture to unclasp
My Vest, and view the Shirt that's there.
In pity from the search forbear:
Smile on,—nor venture to unclasp
My Vest, and view the Shirt that's there.
TO MARY.
Well! thou art happy, and I say
That I should thus be happy too;
For still I hate to go away
As badly as I used to do.
That I should thus be happy too;
For still I hate to go away
As badly as I used to do.
Thy husband 's blest,—and 't will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot;
But let them pass,—O, how my heart
Would hate him, if he clothed thee not!
Some pangs to view his happier lot;
But let them pass,—O, how my heart
Would hate him, if he clothed thee not!
470
When late I saw thy favorite child,
I thought, like Dutchmen, “I 'd go dead,”
But when I saw its breakfast piled,
I thought how much 't would take for bread.
I thought, like Dutchmen, “I 'd go dead,”
But when I saw its breakfast piled,
I thought how much 't would take for bread.
I saw it and repressed my groans
Its father in its face to see,
Because I knew my scanty funds
Were scarce enough for you and me.
Its father in its face to see,
Because I knew my scanty funds
Were scarce enough for you and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away;
While thou art blest, to grieve were sin,
But near thee I can never stay,
Because I 'd get in love again.
While thou art blest, to grieve were sin,
But near thee I can never stay,
Because I 'd get in love again.
I deemed that time, I deemed that pride,
My boyish feeling had subdued,
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
I 'd try to get you, if I could.
My boyish feeling had subdued,
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
I 'd try to get you, if I could.
Yet was I calm: I recollect,
My hand had once sought yours again,
But now your husband might object,
And so I kept it on my cane.
My hand had once sought yours again,
But now your husband might object,
And so I kept it on my cane.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with neither woe nor scoff;
One only feeling couldst thou trace,
A disposition to be off.
Yet meet with neither woe nor scoff;
One only feeling couldst thou trace,
A disposition to be off.
Away! away, my early dream,
Remembrance never must awake;
O, where is Mississippi's stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or break!
Remembrance never must awake;
O, where is Mississippi's stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or break!
THE CHANGE.
In sunset's light o'er Boston thrown,
A young man proudly stood
Beside a girl, the only one
He thought was fair or good;
The one on whom his heart was set,
The one he tried so long to get.
A young man proudly stood
Beside a girl, the only one
He thought was fair or good;
471
The one he tried so long to get.
He heard his wife's first loving sound,
A low, mysterious tone,
A music sought, but never found,
By beaux and gallants gone;
He listened and his heart beat high,—
That was the song of victory!
A low, mysterious tone,
A music sought, but never found,
By beaux and gallants gone;
He listened and his heart beat high,—
That was the song of victory!
The rapture of the conqueror's mood
Rushed burning through his frame,
And all the folks that round him stood
Its torrents could not tame,
Though stillness lay with eve's last smile
Round Boston Common all the while.
Rushed burning through his frame,
And all the folks that round him stood
Its torrents could not tame,
Though stillness lay with eve's last smile
Round Boston Common all the while.
Years came with care; across his life
There swept a sudden change,
E'en with the one he called his wife,
A shadow dark and strange,
Breathed from the thought so swift to fall
O'er triumph's hour,—and is this all?
There swept a sudden change,
E'en with the one he called his wife,
A shadow dark and strange,
Breathed from the thought so swift to fall
O'er triumph's hour,—and is this all?
No, more than this! what seemed it now
Right by that one to stand?
A thousand girls of fairer brow
Walked his own mountain land;
Whence, far o'er matrimony's track,
Their wild, sweet voices called him back.
Right by that one to stand?
A thousand girls of fairer brow
Walked his own mountain land;
Whence, far o'er matrimony's track,
Their wild, sweet voices called him back.
They called him back to many a glade
Where once he joyed to rove,
Where often in the beechen shade
He sat and talked of love;
They called him with their mocking sport
Back to the times he used to court.
Where once he joyed to rove,
Where often in the beechen shade
He sat and talked of love;
They called him with their mocking sport
Back to the times he used to court.
But, darkly mingling with the thought
Of each remembered scene,
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught
With all that lay between,—
His wrinkled face, his altered lot,
His children's wants, the wife he 'd got!
Of each remembered scene,
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught
With all that lay between,—
472
His children's wants, the wife he 'd got!
Where was the value of that bride
He likened once to pearls?
His weary heart within him died
With yearning for the girls,—
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.
He likened once to pearls?
His weary heart within him died
With yearning for the girls,—
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.
He wept; the wife that made his bread
Beheld the sad reverse,
Even on the spot where he had said
“For better or for worse.”
O happiness! how far we flee
Thine own sweet path in search of thee
Beheld the sad reverse,
Even on the spot where he had said
“For better or for worse.”
O happiness! how far we flee
Thine own sweet path in search of thee
HE NEVER WROTE AGAIN.
His hope of publishing went down,
The sweeping press rolled on;
But what was any other crown
To him who had n't one?
He lived,—for long may man bewail
When thus he writes in vain:
Why comes not death to those who fail:—
He never wrote again!
The sweeping press rolled on;
But what was any other crown
To him who had n't one?
He lived,—for long may man bewail
When thus he writes in vain:
Why comes not death to those who fail:—
He never wrote again!
Books were put out, and “had a run,”
Like coinage from the mint;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one they would n't print?
Before him passed, in calf and sheep,
The thoughts of many a brain;
His lay with the rejected heap:—
He never wrote again!
Like coinage from the mint;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one they would n't print?
Before him passed, in calf and sheep,
The thoughts of many a brain;
His lay with the rejected heap:—
He never wrote again!
He sat where men who wrote went round,
And heard the rhymes they built;
He saw their works most richly bound,
With portraits and in gilt.
Dreams of a volume all forgot
Were blent in every strain:
A thought of one they issued not:—
He never wrote again!
And heard the rhymes they built;
473
With portraits and in gilt.
Dreams of a volume all forgot
Were blent in every strain:
A thought of one they issued not:—
He never wrote again!
Minds in that time closed o'er the trace
Of books once fondly read,
And others came to fill their place,
And were perused instead.
Tales which young girls had bathed in tears
Back on the shelves were lain:
Fresh ones came out for other years:—
He never wrote again!
Of books once fondly read,
And others came to fill their place,
And were perused instead.
Tales which young girls had bathed in tears
Back on the shelves were lain:
Fresh ones came out for other years:—
He never wrote again!
THE SOIREE.
This is the Soiree: from grate to entrance,
Like milliner's figures, stand the lovely girls;
But from their silent lips no merry sentence
Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls.
Like milliner's figures, stand the lovely girls;
But from their silent lips no merry sentence
Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls.
Ah! what will rise, how will they rally,
When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease”!
What brilliant repartee, what witty sally,
Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!
When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease”!
What brilliant repartee, what witty sally,
Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus,
The laugh of ecstasy, the merry tone,
That through the evenings that have gone before us
In long reverberations reach our own.
The laugh of ecstasy, the merry tone,
That through the evenings that have gone before us
In long reverberations reach our own.
From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices,
Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang,
And, loud amidst their universal noises,
From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.
Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang,
And, loud amidst their universal noises,
From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.
474
I hear the editor, who from his office
Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff,
And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers,
Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.
Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff,
And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers,
Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.
The tumult of each saqued, and charming maiden,
The idle talk that sense and reason drowns,
The ancient dames with jewelry o'erladen,
And trains depending from the brocade gowns,—
The idle talk that sense and reason drowns,
The ancient dames with jewelry o'erladen,
And trains depending from the brocade gowns,—
The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder,
The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies too,
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of some lady blue,—
The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies too,
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of some lady blue,—
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With pastimes so ridiculous as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
With pastimes so ridiculous as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies,
Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace,
Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies,
There were no time to visit such a place.
Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace,
Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies,
There were no time to visit such a place.
THE CITY LIFE.
How shall I know thee in that sphere that keeps
The country youth that to the city goes,
When all of thee, that change can wither, sleeps
And perishes among your cast-off clothes?
The country youth that to the city goes,
When all of thee, that change can wither, sleeps
And perishes among your cast-off clothes?
For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain,
If there I meet thy one-horse carriage not;
Nor see the hat I love, nor ride again,
When thou art driving on a gentle trot.
If there I meet thy one-horse carriage not;
Nor see the hat I love, nor ride again,
When thou art driving on a gentle trot.
Wilt thou not for me in the city seek,
And turn to note each passing shawl and gown?
You used to come and see me once a week,—
Shall I be banished from your thought in town?
And turn to note each passing shawl and gown?
You used to come and see me once a week,—
Shall I be banished from your thought in town?
475
In that great street I don't know how to find,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?
The love that lived through all the simple past,
And meekly with my country training bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire in town, and be no more?
And meekly with my country training bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire in town, and be no more?
A happier lot than mine, and greater praise,
Await thee there; for thou, with skill and tact,
Hast learnt the wisdom of the world's just ways,
And dressest well, and knowest how to act.
Await thee there; for thou, with skill and tact,
Hast learnt the wisdom of the world's just ways,
And dressest well, and knowest how to act.
For me, the country place in which I dwell
Has made me one of a proscribed band;
And work hath left its scar—that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my hand.
Has made me one of a proscribed band;
And work hath left its scar—that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my hand.
Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the town,
Wilt thou not keep the same belovéd name,
The same black-satin vest, and morning-gown,
Lovelier in New York city, yet the same?
Wilt thou not keep the same belovéd name,
The same black-satin vest, and morning-gown,
Lovelier in New York city, yet the same?
Shalt thou not teach me, in that grander home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this,—
The wisdom which is fine,—till I become
Thy fit companion in that place of bliss?
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this,—
The wisdom which is fine,—till I become
Thy fit companion in that place of bliss?
THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH.
Not a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,
As the man to his bridal we hurried;
Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
On the spot where the fellow was married.
As the man to his bridal we hurried;
Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
On the spot where the fellow was married.
We married him just about eight at night,
Our faces paler turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the gas-lamp's steady burning.
Our faces paler turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the gas-lamp's steady burning.
476
No useless watch-chain covered his vest,
Nor over-dressed we found him;
But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
With a few of his friends around him.
Nor over-dressed we found him;
But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
With a few of his friends around him.
Few and short were the things we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we silently stood about,
With spite and anger dying,
How the merest stranger had cut us out,
With only half our trying.
With spite and anger dying,
How the merest stranger had cut us out,
With only half our trying.
Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that 's gone,
And oft for the past upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if we let him live on,
In the house where his wife conveyed him.
And oft for the past upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if we let him live on,
In the house where his wife conveyed him.
But our heavy task at length was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we turned to go,—
We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.
We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.
BALLAD OF THE CANAL.
We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul had room to sleep;
It was midnight on the waters,
And the banks were very steep.
Not a soul had room to sleep;
It was midnight on the waters,
And the banks were very steep.
'T is a fearful thing when sleeping
To be startled by the shock,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, “Coming to a lock!”
To be startled by the shock,
477
Thunder, “Coming to a lock!”
So we shuddered there in silence,
For the stoutest berth was shook,
While the wooden gates were opened
And the mate talked with the cook.
For the stoutest berth was shook,
While the wooden gates were opened
And the mate talked with the cook.
As thus we lay in darkness,
Each one wishing we were there,
“We are through!” the captain shouted,
And he sat down on a chair.
Each one wishing we were there,
“We are through!” the captain shouted,
And he sat down on a chair.
And his little daughter whispered,
Thinking that he ought to know,
“Is n't travelling by canal-boats
Just as safe as it is slow?”
Thinking that he ought to know,
“Is n't travelling by canal-boats
Just as safe as it is slow?”
Then he kissed the little maiden,
And with better cheer we spoke,
And we trotted into Pittsburg
When the morn looked through the smoke.
And with better cheer we spoke,
And we trotted into Pittsburg
When the morn looked through the smoke.
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which, that night,
My smiling bride was led;
She did n't come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which, that night,
My smiling bride was led;
She did n't come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!
I remember, I remember,
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,—
They cost an awful sight!
The “corner lot” on which I built,
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day,—
That man is single yet!
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,—
They cost an awful sight!
478
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day,—
That man is single yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport:
My spirit flew in feathers then,
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate,—
I'm not so anxious now!
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport:
My spirit flew in feathers then,
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate,—
I'm not so anxious now!
I remember, I remember,
My dear one's smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when she was n't got!
My dear one's smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when she was n't got!
JACOB.
He dwelt among “apartments let,”
About five stories high;
A man I thought that none would get,
And very few would try.
About five stories high;
A man I thought that none would get,
And very few would try.
A boulder, by a larger stone
Half hidden in the mud,
Fair as a man when only one
Is in the neighborhood.
Half hidden in the mud,
Fair as a man when only one
Is in the neighborhood.
He lived unknown, and few could tell
When Jacob was not free;
But he has got a wife,—and O!
The difference to me!
When Jacob was not free;
But he has got a wife,—and O!
The difference to me!
479
THE WIFE.
Her washing ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,
And passed the long, long night away,
In darning ragged hose.
Yet lived she at its close,
And passed the long, long night away,
In darning ragged hose.
But when the sun in all his state
Illumed the eastern skies,
She passed about the kitchen grate,
And went to making pies.
Illumed the eastern skies,
She passed about the kitchen grate,
And went to making pies.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG WOMAN SAID TO THE OLD MAID.
Tell me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that 's single,
And things are not what they seem.
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that 's single,
And things are not what they seem.
Married life is real, earnest;
Single blessedness a fib;
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
Single blessedness a fib;
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding-day.
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding-day.
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the church.
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the church.
480
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a woman, be a wife!
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a woman, be a wife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present;
Heart within, and Man ahead!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present;
Heart within, and Man ahead!
Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us
Such examples as will tell;—
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us
Such examples as will tell;—
Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen's port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Sailing far from Hymen's port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor, and to win!
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor, and to win!
THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES.
There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard,
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;
In the time of my childhood 't was terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;
In the time of my childhood 't was terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
That bower and its products I never forget,
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard?
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard?
481
No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on,
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on,
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard:
And thus good to my taste as 't was then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard.
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard:
And thus good to my taste as 't was then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard.
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.
When lovely woman wants a favor,
And finds, too late, that man won't bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?
And finds, too late, that man won't bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?
The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling, is, to cry!
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling, is, to cry!
SHAKESPERIAN READINGS.
Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where,
To be a cold obstruction and to groan!
This sensible, warm woman to become
A prudish clod; and the delighted spirit
To live and die alone, or to reside
With married sisters, and to have the care
Of half a dozen children, not your own;
And driven, for no one wants you,
Round about the pendant world; or worse than worst
Of those that disappointment and pure spite
Have driven to madness: 'T is too horrible!
The weariest and most troubled married life
That age, ache, penury, or jealousy
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To being an old maid.
To be a cold obstruction and to groan!
This sensible, warm woman to become
A prudish clod; and the delighted spirit
To live and die alone, or to reside
With married sisters, and to have the care
Of half a dozen children, not your own;
And driven, for no one wants you,
Round about the pendant world; or worse than worst
482
Have driven to madness: 'T is too horrible!
The weariest and most troubled married life
That age, ache, penury, or jealousy
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To being an old maid.
That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not,)
Walking between the garden and the barn,
Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took
At a young chicken standing by a post,
And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,
As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.
But I might see young Reuben's fiery shot
Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,
And the domesticated fowl passed on,
In henly meditation, bullet free.
Walking between the garden and the barn,
Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took
At a young chicken standing by a post,
And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,
As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.
But I might see young Reuben's fiery shot
Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,
And the domesticated fowl passed on,
In henly meditation, bullet free.
My father had a daughter got a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I good-looking,
I should, your lordship.
And what's her residence?
A hut, my lord, she never owned a house,
But let her husband, like a graceless scamp,
Spend all her little means,—she thought she ought,—
And in a wretched chamber, on an alley,
She worked like masons on a monument,
Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed?
As it might be, perhaps, were I good-looking,
I should, your lordship.
And what's her residence?
A hut, my lord, she never owned a house,
But let her husband, like a graceless scamp,
Spend all her little means,—she thought she ought,—
And in a wretched chamber, on an alley,
She worked like masons on a monument,
Earning their bread. Was not this love indeed?
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes | |