Lines in Pleasant Places Rhythmics of many moods and quantities. Wise and otherwise |
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TWENTY YEARS LATER.
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 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
35
TWENTY YEARS LATER.
Gleam, waves of swift Piscataqua,
Sing, woods on tranquil Kittery's side,
Shout, Newington upon the Bay,
Ye airs of “Greenland's icy,” play,
And Old Rye mingle with the tide;
Sing, woods on tranquil Kittery's side,
Shout, Newington upon the Bay,
Ye airs of “Greenland's icy,” play,
And Old Rye mingle with the tide;
Let “kettle to the trumpet speak,
The trumpet to the cannoneer;”
Ring, bells, whose tones o'er Walker's Creek,
Through distant vales, shall echoes seek,
And bring them willing captives here,—
The trumpet to the cannoneer;”
Ring, bells, whose tones o'er Walker's Creek,
Through distant vales, shall echoes seek,
And bring them willing captives here,—
For every heart is full to-day,
And everything, in sweet accord.
Must tributary honors pay,
To recognize the genial sway
Of Joy, the season's sovereign lord.
And everything, in sweet accord.
Must tributary honors pay,
To recognize the genial sway
Of Joy, the season's sovereign lord.
Our good old Mother spreads her arms
To welcome back her sons to-day,
Who come from worldly strifes and harms,
Responsive to the potent charms
That still among them all hold sway.
To welcome back her sons to-day,
Who come from worldly strifes and harms,
Responsive to the potent charms
That still among them all hold sway.
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From scenes afar, with lengthened ranks,
They to her side maternal fly,
Forgot the early duteous spanks
That fell in showers upon their flanks
When driven abroad their fate to try.
They to her side maternal fly,
Forgot the early duteous spanks
That fell in showers upon their flanks
When driven abroad their fate to try.
No cause for murmuring at the fact;
'Twas Providence, in kind disguise,
That sent them off to think and act,
To cultivate the world's great tract,
And make men better and more wise.
'Twas Providence, in kind disguise,
That sent them off to think and act,
To cultivate the world's great tract,
And make men better and more wise.
This is the mission every “son”
Is obligated to perform;
And, in the long, decisive run,
Invariably it is done;
As all confess with feeling warm.
Is obligated to perform;
And, in the long, decisive run,
Invariably it is done;
As all confess with feeling warm.
The pulpit, law, the trades, the mart,
The press, and schools, where'er you search.
Perform, it seems, a better part,
With more efficiency and heart,
When trade-marked by the Old North Church.
The press, and schools, where'er you search.
Perform, it seems, a better part,
With more efficiency and heart,
When trade-marked by the Old North Church.
How wide they're scattered! every land
And every sea some one may show;
From Egypt's yellow glistening sand,
To where the icy floes expand,
And the North Pole sticks through the snow.
And every sea some one may show;
From Egypt's yellow glistening sand,
To where the icy floes expand,
And the North Pole sticks through the snow.
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They take, of course, the foremost place,
With modesty that is not weak,
And soon as seen a Portsmouth face,
Contestants cease to urge the race,
Awed into silence by its cheek.
With modesty that is not weak,
And soon as seen a Portsmouth face,
Contestants cease to urge the race,
Awed into silence by its cheek.
But right the record that they show,
In worth and manliness and “sich;”
And every one, as we well know,
Succeeds from the first signal, “Go!”
And all are virtuous and rich.
In worth and manliness and “sich;”
And every one, as we well know,
Succeeds from the first signal, “Go!”
And all are virtuous and rich.
But, grandest trait of those who roam,
Their “hearts untravelled” here have rest;
E'en though the hair, like ocean foam,
'Circleth the base of thought's high dome,
They ne'er forget their primal nest.
Their “hearts untravelled” here have rest;
E'en though the hair, like ocean foam,
'Circleth the base of thought's high dome,
They ne'er forget their primal nest.
The “lean and slippered pantaloon,”
Who “pipes and whistles,” minus teeth,
Feels his whole heart with joy attune,
And all the fires of life's young June
Glowing with ardor underneath.
Who “pipes and whistles,” minus teeth,
Feels his whole heart with joy attune,
And all the fires of life's young June
Glowing with ardor underneath.
'Twixt farthest Indus and the Pole,
Climb heights remote from human tread,
You'll find, cut on that lofty scroll,
Some name, familiar to your soul,
Carved on the old-time Fountain Head.
Climb heights remote from human tread,
You'll find, cut on that lofty scroll,
Some name, familiar to your soul,
Carved on the old-time Fountain Head.
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One I remember, years aback,
Friend and companion of my youth,
Who early was compelled to pack,
Because police were on his track,
For some small error and unruth.
Friend and companion of my youth,
Who early was compelled to pack,
Because police were on his track,
For some small error and unruth.
I heard from him—south, west, and east,
At last as being in Feegee,
Tattooed and feathered, sheared and greased,
Presiding o'er a local feast
Among the islands of the sea.
At last as being in Feegee,
Tattooed and feathered, sheared and greased,
Presiding o'er a local feast
Among the islands of the sea.
Another, too, of grotesque mien,
Who mixed with us in boyhood's day,
Lacking the lively “pistareen,”
Put out from home, two days between,
And vanished from these scenes away.
Who mixed with us in boyhood's day,
Lacking the lively “pistareen,”
Put out from home, two days between,
And vanished from these scenes away.
He for a while from sight was lost,
When an exploring sailor man
Saw him, cross-legged, upon a post,
The admiration of a host—
A heathen god in Hindostan.
When an exploring sailor man
Saw him, cross-legged, upon a post,
The admiration of a host—
A heathen god in Hindostan.
So when Bill Gibson disappeared,
—That ne'er-do-well, the neighbors' tease—
For whom a fatal end was feared
By that contrivance, looped and geared,
That settles grave delinquencies,—
—That ne'er-do-well, the neighbors' tease—
For whom a fatal end was feared
By that contrivance, looped and geared,
That settles grave delinquencies,—
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After long years had passed away,
A traveller 'neath Turkish skies
Saw, clad in elegant array,
With servants rich, in livery gay,
A form that filled him with surprise:
A traveller 'neath Turkish skies
Saw, clad in elegant array,
With servants rich, in livery gay,
A form that filled him with surprise:
'Twas Bill, whom fate had hither cast,
That his astonished vision saw,
Fanned by four sudras as he passed,
With money and importance vast,
A real seven-tailed bashaw.
That his astonished vision saw,
Fanned by four sudras as he passed,
With money and importance vast,
A real seven-tailed bashaw.
So Portsmouth girls in marriage hide,
—Forgotten or unknown their sphere,—
But strong and true the tender pride
Which draws them to the river side,
And here again they reappear.
—Forgotten or unknown their sphere,—
But strong and true the tender pride
Which draws them to the river side,
And here again they reappear.
Ever to Portsmouth instincts true,
We find, what time like this imparts,
That, like the old “dame of the shoe,”
They duty's line have kept in view,
And in their spheres reigned Queens of Hearts.
We find, what time like this imparts,
That, like the old “dame of the shoe,”
They duty's line have kept in view,
And in their spheres reigned Queens of Hearts.
If lady's, or if humbler role
They're called to, you may bet your life
That, in the atmosphere of soul,
Where the domestic gods control,
No discount's asked for them as wife.
They're called to, you may bet your life
That, in the atmosphere of soul,
Where the domestic gods control,
No discount's asked for them as wife.
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We fain would kiss sweet Mary Ann,
As erst we did in early youth,
But wholly modify our plan
As we behold that other man,
And fear to risk our only tooth.
As erst we did in early youth,
But wholly modify our plan
As we behold that other man,
And fear to risk our only tooth.
Why all don't marry, we might quiz,
But if for lack of love or pelf,
That is their own especial “biz;”
We only know that what is, is,
And each knows how it is herself.
But if for lack of love or pelf,
That is their own especial “biz;”
We only know that what is, is,
And each knows how it is herself.
Now “home again,” but, O, how changed
Each scene, beneath the flight of years!
The old-time scenery deranged,
The good old neighborhoods estranged—
Recalled through memory and tears.
Each scene, beneath the flight of years!
The old-time scenery deranged,
The good old neighborhoods estranged—
Recalled through memory and tears.
We scarce a single rood retrace,
—The schools and play-grounds disappeared—
We strive “Old Cellar” to replace,
We miss the “Great Rock's” honest face,
The “Willows” that our boyhood cheered.
—The schools and play-grounds disappeared—
We strive “Old Cellar” to replace,
We miss the “Great Rock's” honest face,
The “Willows” that our boyhood cheered.
“Penhallow's Field” has left no sign,
And structures rise o'er former sites,
Where eager Boyhood watched the shine
Of lightning from the cloudy line
O'er “Christian Shore” on summer nights.
And structures rise o'er former sites,
Where eager Boyhood watched the shine
Of lightning from the cloudy line
O'er “Christian Shore” on summer nights.
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Growth, growth, though not perceived at home,
Steals silently along each track;
Noted alone by those who roam,
—Seeds germinant in kindred loam,—
Hiding the path on looking back.
Steals silently along each track;
Noted alone by those who roam,
—Seeds germinant in kindred loam,—
Hiding the path on looking back.
And where are they, the loving ones,
We left behind when forth we came?
Dear, unambitious, homebred “Sons!”
They've had their “innings” and their “runs,”
And long ago closed up the game.
We left behind when forth we came?
Dear, unambitious, homebred “Sons!”
They've had their “innings” and their “runs,”
And long ago closed up the game.
Yet here and there a form we meet,
Time-honored relics of the past,
With dimming eyes and lagging feet,
Who our returning presence greet,
Tried, true, and faithful to the last.
Time-honored relics of the past,
With dimming eyes and lagging feet,
Who our returning presence greet,
Tried, true, and faithful to the last.
The capillary ducts may dry,
The nerves by age may be unstrung,
Passion no more may fire the eye;—
But, though the faculties deny,
The heart will evermore be young.
The nerves by age may be unstrung,
Passion no more may fire the eye;—
But, though the faculties deny,
The heart will evermore be young.
I met Apollo here to-day,
—As full of genius as an egg,—
With music, art, and verse in play,
As actively as when away
I went, my destiny to beg.
—As full of genius as an egg,—
With music, art, and verse in play,
As actively as when away
I went, my destiny to beg.
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'Twas Moses, not of Horeb fame,
But gentle, tasteful Thomas P.,
Whose heart is lit with art's true flame,
Self-fed,—the more to others' shame,—
A martyr to the Graces three.
But gentle, tasteful Thomas P.,
Whose heart is lit with art's true flame,
Self-fed,—the more to others' shame,—
A martyr to the Graces three.
And here we meet 'neath native skies,
With soberness and gladness blent;
And our old mother's kindly eyes
Have looked to all our small supplies,
On hospitality in-tent.
With soberness and gladness blent;
And our old mother's kindly eyes
Have looked to all our small supplies,
On hospitality in-tent.
God bless her—bless us, every one!
Give pleasure unrestricted power,
And every daughter, every son,
When care again the field hath won,
Shall breathe a blessing on this hour.
Give pleasure unrestricted power,
And every daughter, every son,
When care again the field hath won,
Shall breathe a blessing on this hour.
The harp that twenty years ago
Made some pretence to lyric fire,
Now halts and slackens in its flow,
Like turgid treacle running slow,
And is at best a feeble lyre;
Made some pretence to lyric fire,
Now halts and slackens in its flow,
Like turgid treacle running slow,
And is at best a feeble lyre;
Yet while its chords can sound a strain,
If not so musical and grand,
'Twill true to this sweet thought remain
That brings us, children, home again,
Beside our mother's knee to stand.
If not so musical and grand,
'Twill true to this sweet thought remain
That brings us, children, home again,
Beside our mother's knee to stand.
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |